


The Seventh Bride

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: A/B/O bodice rippers [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Situations, Alpha Derek, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gothic Romance, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Lydia Martin, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Other, Pydia, Regency, Regency Romance, Witchcraft, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, accusations of witch craft, adult scenes, bodice ripper, explicit sexual situtations, period specific slurs, secondary sterek, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 27
Words: 60,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin is sold into marriage to the shadowy Lord Peter Hale, a man who never leaves his room and whom reputation tells has murdered his previous six brides, but there is more than Lydia knows going on at Maunlilie Tor, there is a mysterious witch upon the property and the housekeeper might not be as friendly as she first appears.</p><p>THIS IS A GOTHIC BODICE RIPPER AND SO WILL CONTAIN HORROR ELEMENTS AND SOME DETAILS READERS MIGHT FIND TRIGGERING<br/>TO PREVENT SPOILERS ALL WARNINGS ARE IN THE END NOTES NOT THE TAGS HOWEVER THERE IS NO CHARACTER DEATH, NON CON OR EXTREME VIOLENCE.<br/>THINK REBECCA BY DAPHNE DUMAURIER</p><p>if you don't want to be spoiled don't read the end notes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue  
London, 1546

Queen Catherine stood upon a small horsehair stool as the seamstress hemmed her gown. Of her court only William Hale, a young omega, was beside her, singing sweetly as the seamstress worked.

“Majesty," Lady Mary said, opening the door and dropping a quick curtsey, “you must come at once, it is terrible, Lady Joanna has gone quite mad.”

Lady Joanna Belvoir was one of the more respected ladies of the court because of her family, who held a lot of wealth and power in the court. She remained in London because her husband was held by the crown on the Isle of Wight and she petitioned constantly for his return. Lord Walsingham himself had reviewed the case before it was placed before the king, and had decided that the imprisonment was just. Her husband had been found guilty of hiding away a Catholic abbot who had been accused of treason and was due for trial. Yet Lady Joanna maintained the role of a devoted wife and petitioned again and again for his release, even though she knew he would not be.

Catherine allowed the seamstress to make quick large looping stitches to hold up the hem as she went down to the room where Lady Joanna was waiting.

Lady Joanna was waiting in a side chamber off the main hall and many had gathered in an attempt to calm her, as she scratched at her face and breasts. Her hair was loose and wild and she made a terrible keening sound. Sir Thomas Seymour had his hands on the top of her arms as he tried to stop her from scratching, as the woman wailed and lashed at him.

“What is going on here?” Catherine asked.

Everyone but Joanna dropped into a curtsey of bow as was due for the queen consort. Lady Joanna did not stop, she launched herself at young William shrieking like a _baoin sidhe_. “He's dead," she screamed, “you took him from me and now he's dead.”

William could not be responsible for any such thing at barely twelve years old and Thomas Seymour, who had once tried to court the queen before the king himself decided on his suit, grabbed the lady and threw her backward away from the boy, but not before she left four long gouges on his cheek. He fell away from her, holding his face with the blood falling between his fingers, marring his beauty.

“Restrain her!" The queen barked as people gathered around the young omega, pressing a kerchief to his ruined face.

“Seven years you took from me.” Joanna screamed, “seven years to give me a son, I’ll take that from you, omega whore, I curse you," her voice turned cold and low, “I curse you and I curse your whole family, your line, what slides out of that whore cunt of yours and all that come after. Seven years I was without my man, seven brides I will take from you, seven times someone who marries into your family will die.” With that she pulled back, with Sir Thomas trying to prevent her from launching herself forward it was easy, and threw herself to the open window. "I curse you, whore," she screamed, “seven brides I’ll take one for every year that you denied me my husband," and laughing she threw herself out of the window and to her bloody death on the cobbles below.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Mr. Jeremiah and Mrs. Natalie Martin are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter Vidama Lydia Martin to Lord Peter Hale.”_

The marriage announcement was tucked away in small print, a small square at the bottom of the page, surrounded by the cheaper options, some of which still had more text. It was common for there to be a large furore for the marriage of an omega, especially one who was in contest for the diamond of the _ton_. Instead, she was surprised her parents had bothered to include her name. There was no date for the marriage, no description of what the bride wore, in which church they were married and who attended.

None of those things were included because none of those things had happened. Lydia was called down for breakfast the night after the Duke of Altrincham’s masque, when she was still on air from the night’s dancing with a charming masked stranger, and told that they would be returning to Shropshire and that she would not be accompanying them, and now she was of age, having just turned eighteen years old, that she would be returning to her husband.

She had not even known she was married.

Her things were packed away in chests, with dried lilacs pressed against the cloth, her bed was stripped and her little dog given to her younger brother, “we don't know if Lord Peter even likes dogs” her mother had said.

The carriage was the Duke's own, black with his crest on the side, and every day when she climbed in on her journey from London to North Wales, where Lord Peter lived, she would see the crest and its legend, “ _ex Labore Sapienta_ ”. Through Suffering Wisdom.

She repeated it over and over as she cried those first two days.

Sold in marriage to a man she did not know, who lived half a world away as far as she understood it, taken from everything and left with a chaperone, a Miss Morell who worked for the Duke, but not his uncle. Her mother had simply shrugged and said “his family offered us five hundred a year for your education," she said, “we could not afford to say no.”

Lydia knew that her husband was older than her. She knew he might not like dogs. She knew he lived in North Wales. And she knew that she was worth five hundred pounds a year.

Miss Morell sat with her back to the driver and a small slim volume in her hands, occasionally from her reticule she pulled out another book which she made notations into with a black pencil. Miss Morell was a black alpha in a sober dress and dark blue bonnet with clear even features and sparkling eyes that gave the impression of not only a deep and abiding knowledge but one she did not care to share. If she felt it was odd that she was serving as Lydia’s chaperone she made no mention of it. She rarely spoke and when she did her tone was so calm and even that Lydia found little in it to pique her interest.

Morell had told her that she worked for the duke in the role of factor, but Lydia did not know what that meant and was angry enough, although not at Morell-, instead she was angry at everything else, that she did not care to ask. She vacillated between long bouts of weeping, with Morell’s kerchief wrung out between her hands, anger, and periods of inanition and dreaming as they traveled. The journey between London and the nearest town to Maunlilie was three days, so that meant three days with just Morell and the inns in which they stopped to either sleep or eat, or sometimes just stretch their legs towards the pissoir. Some of the inns had elaborate _pissoir_ , but for the most part, it was just a hole in some muddy ground surrounded by a falling down fence, where she not only had to be escorted to and from by Morell but hitch up her skirts so she could relieve herself.

The inns treated her like a lady and not just a vidama to flirt with aimlessly, in that they were curt and people turned their backs on her as if she was not there rather than engage her in conversation. Older ladies, some wearing wigs caught in place with pins, saw the carriage she rode in with its legend “ _ex Labore Sapienta_ " under the wolf passant of the Hale family and suddenly invited her to take tea with them on the breaks, with Miss Morell sitting beside her like the specter of death.

So she sat on the velvet covered bench of the carriage, one that was slightly deeper than most that she might pull her legs up underneath her and daydreamed the journey away.

The last night of her season she had attended the Masque of the mysterious Duke of Altrincham.

Her costume had been a gift from one of those alphas who had sought to court her, wrapped in tissue paper was a white and silver mantua, with a sack back and a raised collar of lace embroidered with silver lace. To accompany it was a silver and plain ceramic diadem of flowers, that her sister, Lys, had identified as amaranth and asphodel, to wear amongst her hair, with a wide band of silver lace to serve as a mask for the ball.

The same suitor, she had not known who it was, for her father had forbidden any men chasing her, and she knew why now but had not at the time, had presented both of her sisters, Lys and Lynette, and even her brother Lysander, with costumes, although all three were betas and her brother was only twelve years old, and the costume he had received, a medieval styled tunic and leggings, was more suited for play than a ball.

All three of the Martin sisters, beta, and omega alike, were dressed as Greek goddesses and Lydia had been surprised to discover the costume she was given was that of Persephone. No expense had been spared and she was surprised that the only gems provided were the ceramic crown, because of the cost of the costumes, but perhaps whoever the suitor was the act of giving jewelry might have been seen as too intimate and enough to cause her father to reject the gift.

Lydia was, as an omega, used to such gifts, although this was a touch more generous than she had received before. There were currently four omega available for marriage in the London season, of which she was one, and only one was a male, her greatest competition in the role of diamond of the ton was Emma Fairfax whose dowry was well known and whose father made sure they ate out at least once a week that her callers might all gather without him having to feed them. Lydia never ate out, and any caller who pressed their suit was cast out.

She had attended that ball knowing she looked every inch a goddess and that Vidama Emma Fairfax could only hope to be so beautiful, and that without the possibility of actually winning her, she would never have been able to compete for the role of diamond.

She had danced all of the evening with a man in a golden jacket with a rococo wig and a papier mache mask of the sun, whose manner was both intimidating and flirty and she had never encountered before. He spoke to her about Galvani’s cell and the natural sciences, about new books and mathematics, not the usual prattle and he had left her breathless, taking more than half of her dances for himself when he wrote Roi de Sol into her dance card. He had commented on Vidama Fairfax’s costume as Caesar as fitting because of the size of her nose and had not looked askance at her when she had dared laugh, and she liked him.

Even in the carriage ride home she could smell his scent and feel the heat of him through her gloves as if he still held her hand. She intended to fight with her father again that she would not wait until Lys was married to accept suitors, for she had found one she liked, one who did not belittle her intelligence or her desire for fashion, and the only problem with him was she had not caught his name, instead she had, as she was leaving, pressed one of her ear fobs, made of paste and wire with the illusion of platinum and diamond, one did not wear all of their jewels to a masque after all, - the point was not to be recognised - into his hand because she was more than a little foxed.

He had pressed champagne into her hand and told her how the glass was apparently modelled upon the naked breast of Madame du Pompadour and wasn't it lucky it wasn't based upon Lady Obermeyer, this had been accompanied with a glance in the lady’s direction, long enough to reveal her almost comically oversized breasts that Lydia knew gave her nothing but bother, because everyone would be shot in the neck from a single glass and the only people left with any blunt would be the champagne salesmen.

She hadn’t even noticed her dark alpha when she was with him, other than locking eyes with a man who had to be him in a wolf mask leaning against the wall the first time she danced with him. Almost as if the same man who had spent the season staring at her.

Now she would never find out who either of them was, the charming man who had danced with her and the dark haired man with the neatly trimmed beard who had spent her entire season staring at her, and vanishing whenever she had gone to point him out to someone else.

He had always been the height of fashion, standing in a narrow waisted white vest with a dark coloured velvet frock coat, he had been handsome enough but his intensity bothered her, enough that it had become something of a joke with her circle of beta friends, all of which were also angling for husbands, that her dark alpha would, of course, be there, he must have attended all the balls for the opportunity to stare at her and vanish before she could point him out.

Perhaps if she had known it was to be her last ball she would have paid more attention, she would have learned the names of the songs that were played, she would have kissed her father upon the head at the Hazard table that she might learn the faces of the players. But she had not known.

Now her life would be in the remote house Maunlilie Tor and its nearby village in the Marches of Wales, far away from the bustle, and even the scientific meetings she had attempted with her ears covered wearing her maid's beta fashions so no one would wonder why an omega might attend them. She wouldn't be able to have Sarah go to the bookstore with the pin money her mother gave her for ribbons to buy books on mathematics, and the lump in her throat swelled up again until it was almost impossible to breathe and her eyes stung. Miss Morell reached into her reticule and pulled out another of her kerchiefs from a seemingly endless supply and a tin of peppermints that was her reaction to her charge crying.

In London, Lydia was one of the most sought out of all the people there for the season. She had had alphas waiting on her every word, they had vied for her attentions and affections and had even, in the brisk cold of very early March, run in their shirts to please her and her little knot of beta girls in the Harlowe’s estate just outside London.

There had been at least nine who were sure in their suit and five that she had encouraged with smiles or laughing at their jokes, there was Scott McCall whose father owned land in Scotland, who occasionally said things that she found distasteful about how omegas had nothing between their ears but lace and ribbons but were so earnest that she found herself agreeing to what he said rather than disappoint him. Miss Harlowe, Rebecca, had commented that Lydia might find herself agreeing to an unpleasant marriage simply because she could not tell him no. He always looked cut to the quick even if all she had done was refuse champagne because she had wanted cordial more.

He wanted a sweet docile omega, and Lydia was pretty sure that such a thing did not exist, who would be content to be adored and provide him with a bushel of bright eyed red cheeked babies. Betas were sweet and docile, omegas were coddled and spoiled.

Lydia didn't even know what Lord Peter wanted.

Did he want children, a trophy wife, a society dame who lived in London separate from her husband and no children to her name? Did he want a pretty nothing with lace and ribbons between her ears? Or did he want a hundred children? Perhaps a mother he could use to legitimize an army of bastards? Lydia didn't know. All she knew was that for five hundred pounds a year her parents had sold her to him.

She knew, academically, it was a large amount of money, she knew it paid for her education and that of her sisters and for her brother to attend Repton. It paid for their staff and the upkeep of their house and kept all of them well clothed and fed and gave them pin money and no one ever complained that it was too expensive or not something they could have. Both of her sisters had a comfortable dower of five thousand pounds which was large for betas, but they were the beta sisters of an omega which made them more favorable as they themselves might have omega children. Even through the tears, Lydia was making connections she had never before, that Lord Peter had clearly paid for that too.

She had been sacrificed for her families happiness. She would make sure she earned it.

“We are coming up on the main house," Morell said, “would you like a nip of brandy to fortify your nerves, my lady." Morell had always called her my lady. Lydia realized that as the wife of Lord Peter she was Lady Lydia Hale now, no longer Vidama Lydia Martin. As the shadow of the house approached Lydia gave a hiccupping sob.

"I think I'd like that nip of brandy now." She said.

Miss Morell just offered her the flask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of the names are British and therefore are said completely different to how they are spelt, so if they appear here it's because they're spent smith and pronounced broom
> 
> Belvoir = Beaver, yes really  
> Altrincham = Awl-tring-ham


	3. Chapter 3

Maunlilie Tor had, when it was first built in the ninth century, been a tower for defending the Welsh coast against raiders. In the following centuries it had been added onto in a hodge podge fashion until the Tudor period where the mismatched parts had been bound together into a fashionable, for the time, villa. The medieval long halls had been brought into the main Tudor mansion like wings, and windows covered every surface in a show of wealth. To the west she could see the managed gardens with their flower bed labyrinths and gravel paths, and to the east, a slope with the original castle wall.

This would be her home, she thought, as she raised her head and faced it, these trees would frame her life, with oak and cypress and old managed spruce, those walls would keep her here, and that church would announce the birth of her children, and eventually her death.

The servants had not come out to meet her. She wasn't surprised. In London they would have, she was nobility now, not just Vidama but Lady Hale, surely the entire staff, with the possible exception of the cook, should appear so they knew who she was, but perhaps they did things differently in Wales. Miss Morell made an unflattering noise as she rapped the door with the knocker.

The woman who answered the door was pretty in a beta way, with a long thin face and brown curls loose about her shoulders. She wore a brown dress with a green floral pattern over her bodice, and her busk was not quite large enough so it gave a view of her bosom. Lydia was not impressed, the woman’s fichu was mostly untucked as if she had been disturbed in flagrante delicto and she kept smoothing down her skirt.

“Miss Morell" she said with a sunny smile, “how lovely to see you," Jennifer was a beta with her curved ears on display amidst her brown curls, and she was clearly flirting with Miss Morell. “And who is this?”

“This," Miss Morell said in that wonderfully eqanimous tone of hers that brooked no complaint and managed to convey her disdain, "Jennifer, is Lady Lydia Hale, Lord Peter’s bride. Everything should be in place for her arrival.”

Jennifer screwed up her mouth, “this is the first I’m hearing of it," she said, then she offered another of her sunny smiles, “but I’m sure we can get this sorted straight out, and we’ll be the best of friends.”

“She is your lady," Morell corrected, “you would do well to remember that, I will be staying in town,” she continued, “for I have business there, I will call on you both in the morning, my lady, Jennifer.” She bowed her head to them, before she turned to walk to the gate.

“Welcome to Maunlilie," Jennifer said, looping her arm through Lydia’s, she herself was so shocked that she did not immediately jerk away as she ought to. “We’ll get someone to move your luggage, do you want me to take your reticule?” She near snatched it from Lydia’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll love it here. Of course we keep the house shut up when the duke and his bride aren't in residence, I’m sure you understand, Lord Peter is practically a recluse, he never leaves his room except to go to the library, and send letters to the foreign office," Lydia didn't really pay attention to the woman. “We’ve only got a small staff, we usually send to the agency in Chester when his Lordship lets us know he will be coming, but even when he does he doesn't like to stay in the big house, his bride says it has vapours and of course is coddled.” Jennifer continued on in that vein as Lydia drowned her out.

Maunlilie Tor was beautiful, the walls were lined with original oak panelling and here and there along the corridors, lined with lush carpets, were beautiful old tapestries and paintings of sour faced ancestors. The windows were large and full of diamong shaped panes of glass, warped in some of the corners and set in place when the house was built. The Civil War had not, as it had in many places, threatened this house. The staircases still had the remnants of the paint that made the bannisters look like stone, often scraped away or even replaced with marble, for there was no shortage of wealth in this house. Every sconce had beeswax candles, and even shut up, it was clear that this was the house of a duke, and she was unwanted.

The room Jennifer led her to was small with an easterly aspect. The housekeeper had to unlock the door for her to enter, the bed was posted and the mattress clean, rolled up at the top of the bed to prevent it being a nest for wildlife, there was a small sachet of white muslin hanging from a piece of twine over the fire place, “damn witch,” Jennifer muttered, taking it and throwing it into the grate. “You must be careful, Lydia," she said ignoring any attempt at propriety. “There is a witch on the property and Heaven alone knows what they attend, we often find these fetches all over the property, of course as good Christian folk we burn them when we do, but..." she shook her head, “let’s get you set up, I trust you're okay with making your own bed.”

Lydia was so shocked and tired and emotionally drawn, she just accepted the sheets, she would deal with Jennifer in the morning once she had had a bath and some sleep in a proper bed - assuming her husband did not come calling.

Jennifer was still talking as she opened the windows to air out the room, which sweetly smelled of lavender and sandal wood if a little stuffy. It was a nice room but she had expected more as a Lady. Lydia had, of course, had a few dreams of what it would be like, and one of them involved a much nicer room than this, perhaps the carpets wouldn't have looked so mouseworn, and the walls would have been papered rather than simply washed white.

“Breakfast is served at six," Jennifer said, “if you can't make it, there won't be more, and most of the staff don't live here when the house is shut up like this and so we keep a really tight schedule. Lunch is at noon, then a light meal at four and supper at eight, after that most of the staff go for the night and so you’ll be alone in the house with Matt, the footman, Lord Peter, Lady Amabel and myself.

“Lady Amabel is very old and doesn't leave her room, and Lord Peter is mostly self sufficient, now I’ll go and get Heather to get you some water so you can wash, after all, I imagine you’ll want to be fresh for your wedding night.”

From her reticule Lydia pulled her watch and the case she had for it that could stand on her nightstand, if she had one, which she did not, and saw that it was gone eight. With the summer in full swing, even this early in May, she had been misled to think it was much earlier in the day.

“Will I eat with my husband?” Lydia asked, finding a fraction of her self assurance as she centred herself.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jennifer said, “he eats alone in the library and doesn't like anyone else in there, he keeps it locked up. But Maunlilie is such a lovely place to walk I can't imagine you’ll spend much time locked up in here.”

“I haven't eaten since lunch," Lydia said, “when you have arranged for me to wash, I would like something to eat, it does not have to be a full meal.”

“I can't do that," Jennifer said with a conciliatory smile, “Miss Danielle, the cook, has gone home for the night and she doesn’t like anyone else in her kitchen. I suppose I could see if she’s left out something, Lord Peter sometimes likes something in the middle of the night, but I wouldn't get my hopes up. Besides,” she offered Lydia a dazzling grin, “it's not that long till breakfast,” she looked her up and down, “and it's not like you couldn't stand to go without a meal or two, I’m sure you understand, we can't stay on London manners, not with the Duke himself in London. I might be able to scramble together a crust or two, but surely bathing and goin to bed is more important, after all, you are here for Lord Peter, I’m sure you’ll want to look your best for him, this is your wedding night after all.”

Lydia had thought that she might start to weep again, but she found the image of the girl who had been so happy in London, the one with the pretty gowns and the ceramic crown. “That would be wonderful, thank you, Jennifer, and if you could find someone to help me with my stays. I have a bed to make after all.” There was an irony there that Miss Austen would have been delighted with.

“By your will.” Jennifer said with something that looked like a mocking bow.

Lydia decided that she despised her and as soon as she found her feet, as soon as she had bowed her husband to her will, as she certainly would, that she would get her fired.

 

After making the bed Lydia sat down heavily on the counterpane, which was a finely woven wool, and undid the complicated chignon that she had worn all day, brushing out her hair and catching it in a loose braid over her shoulder that she tied with a length of golden ribbon. Then pulling a stevenson over her dress she decided to talk a short walk amongst the Tudor gardens. After all this house was to be her home now and she would not let one over familiar beta put her off.

The house was beautiful, and as she opened the door she could see a pair of gardeners trimming back the hedges, one using the shears and the other scraping together the cut off branches, they appeared to be a set of twins, and when she walked past them they looked at her askance as if they had no idea who she was or why she would be there. She gave them a little bow of the head under her bonnet before raising her head. One of them said something crude, and then the other laughed.

There was a wood of spruces, interspersed with beech trees and a few patches of well maintained grass, but never quite enough that she could consider them a lawn. If there was an ornamental lake or pond she had not seen it. There were a few places where stone houses had stood but the woods, over the years, had reclaimed then until only a piece of wall, or part of a foundation remained.

Squirrels dashed out of her way as she left the worn path and moved towards one of the larger ruins, covered as it was with Lily of the Valley and ivy it looked that it might have been, at some point in its life, something important, perhaps only two miles from the main house. She wondered what it was with its large open windows, the glass from which was long gone, but the arches remained, and tiled floor.

“Colonel!” A female voice shouted out, “come back here," and that was all the warning before a small mud covered creature pelted through the undergrowth and jumped on Lydia. It was possible, that under the mud and bracken that the thing was covered in it was a dog. It was a small one, and there were definitely eyes in what could have been a face, alternately it could have been a bog creature with teeth.

The girl that pushed her way through the undergrowth after the dog was flanked by two large spaniels, that were almost as covered in mud as the small creature before her. “I am so sorry," the blonde beta girl said, “Colonel has a mind of her own and I don't think it’s planning good things for the world.”

The dog let her tongue loll out before her entire body bristled, “don’t you," the beta started but by the time she had said that much the dog was shaking most of the mud she wore over the two of them, “shake.” The beta looked entirely crestfallen, “I am so sorry, these are Lord Peter’s dogs, not that he gives them any attention, his nephew the Duke gave them to him in the hope it might bring him from his melancholia and Colonel was a gift. The Duke bought the two springer spaniels, Goblin and Gunther, in the hope that it might arouse his uncle from the melancholia because he had always favoured duck hunting, and hearing that Lord Peter was a fan of spaniels he was given this little monkey, who is of course useless for hunting, I don't think there’s a brain in her head although she’s very pretty.”

“Why is she called Colonel?” Lydia asked, almost regretting the question as soon as it escaped her mouth.

“Her name is Colonel John Sheppard," the beta said, “she was named after the gentleman in question who gave her to him, when the Duke questioned the appearance of her when she was a pup he pointed at her and said “and that is Colonel John Sheppard” and it was as good a name as any. I am so sorry, I haven't introduced myself and I’m prattling on like I have less brain in my head than Colonel herself, I’m Heather, I work up at the big house.”

“Lydia," Lydia said.

“I guessed, Jennifer said you were coming up from London soon, so you must be her. I’m going back to the house if you’re coming. Someone needs a bath that is not mostly muck and weeds.” She looked at the dog who clearly didn't care. “Gunther and Goblin are good dogs, it's just this little devil," it was said fondly, “who thinks she rules the world and that muck and mud don't apply to her.” The spaniel just let her tongue loll out in an expression of canine glee.

 

Heather turned out to be everything Jennifer was not, she took her into the kitchen, both of them soaked from bathing the dog and laughing, and had the cook, who had not gone home so early, throw them together a pan of eggs and cheese and they had eaten until Lydia had thought she was gone to burst, and Colonel at her feet yipping and begging for scraps. “you’ve made a friend," the cook, Danielle, a black woman with a mark on her face near her eye that Lydia couldn't quite make out, but capable hands and a manner that brooked no complaint about what she erved up, even if it hadn't been wonderful - and it was, said, and Lydia, looking across at Heather, knew she was right.

 

Colonel was the only one to join Lydia in her bed that night in her husband’s house. The other two found themselves a bed on the rug by the fire which Heather had lit, the smoke smelling sweetly of lavender and sandal wood as it filled the room, the two dogs standing sentinel in front of it, and the smaller one lying on her back on the blanket with her leg in the air, her tongue hanging out of her mouth and her ears against Lydia’s mouth no matter how she twisted and turned to avoid them.

The dogs closed in when the screaming started, a long wailing that had Lydia scrabbling for a match to light the lamp, but with two dogs staring at the door, as if daring anyone to enter, and the third draped along her back like a furry bolster she felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pronunciation notes
> 
> Maunlilie is pronounced Moon-lily


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia tries to put her foot down, it is not well recieved

Lydia awoke feeling rested and firmer in herself than she had since she had heard that she was married. She washed with the water left in the bowl and pulled on a _chemise a’la reine_ as she did not need a maid to help her with it, and it did not require stays, and with a pair of slippers found in the bottom of her chest she was almost ready for the day. She didn't bother with an elaborate hair style, merely brushed it out and braided it as if for sleep, before tying it in a white ribbon.

Sitting on the dresser by the small peer glass, one certainly smaller than she was used to although she had shared that with her sisters, was a small velvet bag. She had no memory of it but she must have put it out with her toilette when she had unpacked the previous night with the spaniel jumping at her feet for scritches. It was easy enough for such a small thing to not catch her attention, although the velvet was rich and tied with a silk ribbon. When she tipped it out into her hand she found a small cross in which five small round moonstones were placed around a central stone that might have been topaz as it had a yellowish hue. There was a slim golden chain that accompanied it, and more bizarrely a small brass key, such as for a casket, but she hadn't, to her knowledge brought one with her.

Fastening the chain around her throat she placed the key into her powder box to worry over another time, it was clear that this was something her brother had given her, for it was cheap and simple, and if her husband was a lord he would have announced himself upon entering her room, wouldn't he?

Or had he crept in to watch her sleep.

Lydia dismissed the thought, the dogs would have roused if anyone had tried to enter, and apart from the unearthly wailing that had started nothing had broken her slumber at all. The wailing she assumed to be perhaps the wind, coming off the sea and catching in the tight curves of the building. She had heard that such buildings had strange noises and perhaps what sounded like someone being murdered was one of them. Her fingers found the cross at her neck almost as an after thought, twisting it for a moment before she regained her composure.

She was Lady Hale, she reminded herself, she would damn well act like it.

The dogs accompanied her on her trek to the kitchen, she was quite convinced she had been put so far away from the lived in parts of the house on purpose, but she had no idea what purpose her husband might have, although she did determine to find him today and ask him.

Jennifer met her in the corridor. “There you are, Lydia," she said with a beaming smile that looked a little cruel on her face, patronizing and Lydia disliked it.

“Lady Hale," Lydia corrected her.

"I’m sorry,” Jennifer said, taking a step back in her confusion. Her dress was a pale pink that day and vastly unsuitable for a housekeeper.

“You will address me as Lady Hale," Lydia said firmly with a smile as condescending as Jennifer’s own, “or your ladyship as befits my rank, I will meet with you once a day to oversee the running of the house.”

Jennifer might have been startled but she recovered quickly, “That is not your role, my lady," she sneered the words out, “this is the home of the Duke of Altrincham, you are merely the wife of his uncle the recluse, I can certainly pass your messages onto his grace but he is in London for most of the year and there might be some delay.” Jennifer had the most awful ability to patronise no matter what said said, and Lydia immediately despised her. She had loathed her when she was friendly, and now she was fractious Lydia cared for her less.

“Then you may pass on this message, I wish to appoint my own household, as is my right, if that means leaving Maunlilie then I will, and I wish Heather to serve as my maid.”

“She can't,” Jennifer said matching Lydia's gaze like they were equals and Lydia had not just requested that Jennifer's employment be ended. “She is to be married by the end of summer and will no longer work here.”

“That will suffice allowing another maid to be brought either from the village or an agency, I shall put together an advert myself.” Lydia was a vidama, her parents were betas which meant she had, for her entire life, been considered as slightly less than her rank allowed, and she would not let some uppity housekeeper bring it down. She had allowed her the familiarity the day before only because she had been tired and worn out from the journey. She would not allow that laxness to continue. “Now I will take my breakfast, with my new maid, in the solar.” And clenching her teeth and maintaining her posture she walked towards where she guessed where the solar was.

The room she eventually chose had lots of bright sunlight when she opened the shutters, the walls were painted a pale duck egg blue but covered in family portraits and the furniture was not covered. There was a large mantel clock over the fire, which lay cold, and apart from needing a good sweep and dust the room was perfectly livable, the cushions on the chair did not yield too much dust when she beat them with her hand before she sat down.

She looked at the clock, taking note of the time, before she started to look at the portraits that adorned the walls, Colonel had taken advantage of a pool of sunlight on one of the Aubusson rugs and had sprawled herself out to soak up the heat. Lydia smiled at her, it had been less than a day and she already adored the dog and wished that she could also be so easy to please.

She took her book from her reticule, like her mother she favoured larger reticules than fashion demanded because she could carry so much in them, a pocket sized novel, a kerchief, some powder, a vinaigrette and the cards of any of the young men who had sought to court her.

She looked at the cards before she snapped the reticule shut, she would pass the time until breakfast with her novel, she supposed, but once she opened it she found she had no interest in the works of Mrs. Radcliffe. So instead she started to look at the paintings that covered the walls.

There was a picture of a stentorian alpha lady in an peachy orange gown and a scowl that could curdle milk. Like most of the people in the portraits she had dark hair and fair skin, there were a few here and there who had more of an olive complexion, and her hair was gathered in the side ringlets that had been so popular at the time. A few peach-orange ribbons were threaded through her dark hair and she had a string of pearls around her throat, with her gown gathered in swags with pearl encrusted brooches. this was not a woman who lacked for wealth.

Beneath her and slightly to the left was an omega beauty with grey blonde curls, as were popular then, her expression was sweetly sad and she wore the same string of pearls as the alpha woman, in a pale blue gown that was detailed with shimmering silver. The picture, unlike that of the woman in orange, was full length to show off her spectacular gown with it's rouched sleeves, covered in the silver voile, that, went in strips down the front of her gown, around her waist to better shown the cartridge pleating and down the front of her skirt. She wore pearls around her wrists and held a feather, and although she wore a brooch under her ribs on the right, over her breasts was a silk rosette. Her ash blonde curls were gathered in a mess of ringlets over her ears but still showed her impressive earrings. She was beautiful, round faced with a clear forehead and large brown eyes, and she stared out of the portrait as if asking for help. Lydia wondered who she was as she was in none of the other paintings, unlike the woman in orange who was pictured with a pair of children.

A pair of alpha sisters, in matching gowns of red and blue trimmed in gold, with soft voile gathers spilling down their arms were the only feature in a ball of shadowy figures, and the two stood hand in hand.

The last duchess had pride of place in a dark navy gown with silky white fichu, her hair was powdered to sit prettily around her face, and was gathered at her nape with a ribbon, under her gainsborough hat. The ribbon was the same salmon red as the lacing on her gown and the ribbons on her sleeves. She was a handsome woman with narrow dark eyes and a thin mouth but a perfect oval of a face, and sitting in her cleavage was a small moonstone cross, noticing it Lydia’s hand went to her own bosom and the cross she was wearing as if they were the same, but she knew they were not, after all the cross had come from her brother - hadn't it.

There were other pictures, some more modern, of pretty alpha girls in white muslin gowns carefully sat for their portraits, there was young alpha boys running amok in sculptured gardens entirely unlike those of Maunlilie. They were all dark haired and almost all dark eyed like their alpha parent, the Lady Talia. Lydia had not been so sheltered that she had not heard of the Lady Talia, who was always spoken of with reverence and a little fear.

One of the few things that Lydia knew about her husband was that he was Lady Talia’s brother.

She scanned the portraits to look for a likely candidate. On the south wall, near the door, was a portrait of a young man with brilliant blue eyes and dark hair. His expression, unlike most of those with their bland indifference, was challenging, and cocky. He had a straight jaw, high pointed alpha ears he made no attempt to hide, and thin smooth brows, his forehead was neat under the black hair that fell across it, and his nose was perhaps a little pointed, but his mouth was soft and lush. He wore a high collared military style jacket, but it was for no regiment that she knew.

The jacket was black but trimmed in gold, with detailed frogging over brass buttons that ran in three lines, one at the wing of each collarbone and the central one which served to fasten the jacket, with thick gold braid trimming the jacket and collar, but what made the jacket stand out was that the collar and the cuffs were both brilliant red.

Lydia wondered who the man was, and then shrugged, opening her book, it was clear that was the Duke of Altrincham.

There had been plenty of rumours about the duke when she had been in London: that he was young, that he had murdered his sister for the title; that his sister had eloped to Europe, that his sister had run off with a married man to the Canadian colonies. He had been forced to leave Cambridge under circumstances that he had had to pay to keep quiet. He had run away to Europe. The foreign office had sent him to Europe. He had taken a child bride. He had married one of the Grand Duchess omega of Russia. He had married a penniless beta. He had married an alpha.

About the only thing that the rumours agreed on was that he was a bluestocking like his mother and attended parliament to fight for the right of everyone, omega included, to vote, that he was handsome, and that he had married before he had come to court thus depriving the society omega the chance to win him and his large fortune. Lydia had never really cared for such things, she had her five or so determined suitors and she had thought that she would choose from them after her second season.

She had been almost certain that she would marry Scott McCall and become lady of his house in Scotland. She had once, and immediately destroying the evidence, signed her name Mrs McCall. It wasn't that she loved McCall it was more that she could not bear to disappoint him. She supposed it wasn't a good foundation for a marriage but he had been so very wealthy and when he looked at her it was like she was the only person in the world, because for him she was.

Her other suitors were all suitable, handsome and well groomed, respectably rich. There was Baronet Lahey’s younger brother, Isaac, who was tall with blonde curly hair but could be cruel when he was slighted. He gifted her with ribbons and trinkets, but like McCall had a tendency to not listen to what she was saying replacing it with things he found more pleasing, like fashion, their future children, and how to get more money from his brother without having to join the army, although his brother had offered to buy him a commission.

Major Merrick was determined and had a wicked sense of humour that cut others to the quick, he had persisted even after her father had threatened him with the constabulary. Of all of her suitors Lydia liked him least, but he had a commission in the army and a duty to serve the crown in the peninsula which gave the option of him dying and leaving her his considerable fortune.

Dr Haberland was the least alpha like alpha that Lydia had ever met, he was shy, effacing and smoked from a pipe, the smell of which lingered on his clothes, but he was interested in her intelligence. He spoke to her about maths and insects and the human body and appreciated that she was clever. He had bought her books of mathematics and volumes about the human body, telling her how in Europe most omega trained as midwives so they were considered even more valuable. The major impediment to his suit was that he was so colossally boring.

The fourth, because male alphas outnumbered female nearly three to one, and the female alphas were charming but uninterested in her for marriage, or at least the ones that approached her were, more interested in gossip or felt themselves too young for marriage. Miss Argent was a wonderful conversationalist who did not mind being surrounded by the flock of beta girls using Lydia’s celebrity to catch themselves rich husbands. She was one of Lydia's closest friends, despite her alpha status. Then there was Sydney who was a rich beta who need a firm hand and been willing to let Lydia guide her through the pit of vipers that was the London season. Tracy was sweet and innocent and liked to smile at Lydia’s most likely suitor, Sir Theodore Raeken, who was charming and could be as cruel as Lydia and seemed interested in letting her talk about mathematics although he admitted he did not understand them.

She looked at the portrait of the cocky blue eyed man again and wondered if that was the duke or maybe her husband and whether or not he would be willing to talk to her about mathematics and the natural sciences, or if she was, as so many of the alphas of London society wanted her to be, a trophy.

 

When she looked at the clock again she was surprised that she had spent an hour in her ruminations, wondering where the time had gone, and there was no sign of her breakfast. She stood up, smoothing out the lines of her chemise and beating the last of the dust from the muslin before she made her way to the kitchens.

“There you are,” Danielle said, without looking around, “bring that tray up to Lady Amabel, quick quick.” The cook seemed incredibly busy, stirring a pot with one hand whilst she worked the bellows with one foot and poured something into a bowl with the other.

"I," Lydia started.

“The back steps, girl, then the stairs on the left, the room is on the right, you can't miss it, you don't want to be responsible for the Lady missing her breakfast.” Although Lydia’s instinct was to answer that she was the lady and she wanted her breakfast she decided that with the cook so busy it was probably best to just bring the tray up the stairs.

 

Lady Amabel was very old and bed bound. She had had in youth a patrician nose that time had turned into something resembling a hawk's beak, with small eyes that were like cave sitters in her face. Her hair was iron grey and a crow's nest on her head and she wore a chemise and quilted bed jacket, but she was covered in layers of blankets. Like she was a puppet propped up against the pillows. "I know you, girl," she said in a voice like sheets of metal grating together. “Omega whore" the old lady had only a few teeth but it didn't stop her spitting out the vitriol.

“You’ll have to do better than that," Lydia said putting the tray on her bed. The bowls and cups were made of polished wood, the sort that not even peasants used any more. The servants in the house ate off ceramic so Lydia did not know why the old woman was fed from wood like an animal. There was warm porridge in the bowl, with a wooden spoon for her to eat from, and what looked to be milk tea. "I grew up an omega to a family of betas, I’ve heard worse than whore.”

“Filthy breeder," the woman hissed, “not have your like in my house.”

“It's a good thing it’s not your house, is it," Lydia said, arranging the blankets about the old woman's lap, but Amabel seemed disinterested in the sweet porridge. As it wasn't particularly hot Lydia didn't think it mattered if she left it to be eaten when she was ready. “You were the one that was up half the night screaming, weren’t you?”

“Houri, bitch, succubus, I know your kind, I know what you do, I know what you’re going to do, my poor boy.”

"Oh be still, you old harridan,” Lydia said bluntly. “I’ll be out of your domain soon enough.”

"Not out of my house, it’s your kind that set the fire, but soon, pretty little hussy, you’ll bring us down, silver bitch." She reached for Lydia putting her old hand on her arm and then Lydia cried out for the old woman had something in her hand, something sharp that felt like fire on her skin, and she jerked away, with blood dripping down between her fingers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Lydia deals with the consequences of Lady Amabel's actions, and Peter is introduced

Heather had put her hand to her mouth when Lydia came back down the stairs with her hand pressed to her upper arm where Amabel had cut her. "I think I need a doctor," she said, “and a tailor, my dress is quite ruined.” She would, later, wonder why she was so calm and detached, but Danielle seemed to know what to do for which she was grateful.

From a high cupboard, one she had to use a stepstool to reach, she pulled two bottles, one thin and green, and the other one a fat stone ware jug, then a jar which she put on the counter. “Oh I don't need laudanum,” Lydia said gaily, “it doesn't hurt at all, “I’m sure a mustard poultice will do the job.”

“It doesn't hurt because of the shock of it,” Danielle said, “how did that old crone get something sharp enough to hurt you with? She gets wooden bowls for a reason.” She made a displeased noise before she carried her collection over to the table and bullied Lydia into a chair. “Let me see how bad it is.”

She pulled Lydia’s hand away to show the mark on her arm. “I might be able to save the dress," she said, “but the sleeve is done for.” She yanked the fabric away, tearing it at the slash that had been made, before balling it up. “Hold this to the cut," she said, “I’m going to shout for Heather and bring you something to drink.”

Lydia nodded, she felt light headed and a little silly as long as she didn't look at her arm, which she knew was slick with blood. She had hurt herself before, but never like this. Her mama had always just applied a poultice, kissed her on the forehead and reassured her she was well. But her mama wasn't here now and she was angry with her for making her come to this awful place without her and Lydia could not stop the tears that welled up. “She called me terrible things," she said as Danielle poured something clear from the stonewear jug into a metal beaker and then a very small splash from the green glass bottle.

“Lady Amabel does that," Danielle said and handed Lydia the cup, and dutifully she swallowed it down. “She's got a mean mouth on her, you should have known that.”

“Didn't even know she existed." Lydia said, the world going fuzzier as the laudanum and gin started to hit. “I don't feel so well," she added, "I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down." Danielle said, placing her hand on the bandage, “you need to go to sleep, just until the doctor comes."

“Alright, mama," Lydia slurred, her eyes getting very heavy and then slowly closing.

Danielle couldn’t find Heather after she tied the bandage off, and so instead sent Matt, one of the footmen, and possibly the laziest of them in a house of lazy footmen, to town to fetch the Doctor, Parrish, and the twins, who managed the garden, to carry Lydia up to her bedroom, although Danielle herself was the one to undress her, even if Aidan had offered, and into a suitable night rail and banyan that left her arm bare.

Dr Parrish was a good man, Danielle knew, selected personally by the Duke to work in the village because Lady Amabel was so old and bedbound. It was one of Danielle’s reliefs that the old crow was stuck in her bed or her chair because she had foul mouth and liked to throw things, but they were so careful, so she had no answer for Dr Parrish when he asked how it had happened as he put careful stitches into her arm and applied some of Baba’s miracle poultice before binding it tightly.

“She’s supposed to be Lady Amabel’s companion," he said, “she should know about the Lady’s eccentricities." Danielle didn’t want to comment on how the rich had eccentricities when everyone else would have been carted off to bedlam.

“She said she didn't know who Amabel was, this doesn't add up, Doctor, I think someone is playing games.”

Parrish frowned. He was a handsome man with close cropped fair hair and a high forehead, he was promised to Heather and so Danielle found herself biting her tongue around him, which she was not loathe to do because Heather was her dearest friend in the world and the doctor clearly made her happy. “Of course the Duke will have to be told. He was adamant that they keep her ladyship from the Sanitarium, but if she is attacking her companions and secreting what appears to be broken glass to do so..." he left it open, “for her safety as much as that of her household.”

“I shall include it in the next letter that I write him," Danielle said, “and also that Jennifer has been lax in her duties if Lady Amabel acquired something sharp enough to wound.” She made a moue of disgust, “something Miss Lydia said, she said she called her names, that’s not typical, although Lady Amabel is foul mouthed it is usually about the food, not who delivers it. This bears some investigation.”

“I agree," Parrish said, nodding sagely. “I would advise keeping her asleep until tomorrow at the earliest, omegas react badly to injury.”

“She’s an omega?” Danielle asked, “what was the agency thinking sending her as a companion? she should be trying to find a husband to keep her.”

“I would advise writing to agency as well, and make sure that you keep me included, I shall call on the gatehouse on my way out, perhaps they know more.” Danielle nodded. “Thank you, Doctor, for coming so promptly.”

"It is of no concern," he answered, “is Heather about? I wish to speak to her before I leave.”

“Will you need a chaperone?” Danielle asked, gathering up the ruins of the dress that Lydia had been wearing, “because I’m going to have to work wonders to save the majority of this dress from the blood.”

“Working miracles is why Lady Laura hired you, I have faith that you’ll be able to salvage most of it.”

Danielle gathered the dress in her arms, “and if you’ll be leaving, Doctor, I’ll arrange our Vidama to continue sleeping.”

—-

Lydia woke in the night with her mouth dry and her arm on fire, she did not remember going to bed and there was a glass of water, whcih she gulped down greedily, noticing the strange taste a little too late. “My beautiful one," the voice said, it seemed almost familar but her head felt stuffed with wool and she could not place from where she knew it.

“You dare too much familiarity, sir, but I am married.” She knew the words but she was surprised that she was able to speak them so easily.

“I know, love," he answered calmly, “for it is me to whom you are married.”

“Sir, I do not know you from the first man, Adam, and what proof do I have of your claims, and if you do not give me answer then I shall scream and bring the whole household upon you.”

“And that, dear one, is what I married you, for that spark within you, although you were only a child when we were wed, it is not unthinkable that you could not remember.” Lydia wanted more than anything to turn over but her arm hurt and it would have meant moving it from where it lay on a pillow. Someone had undressed her and dressed her for bed in a sombre green banyan coat, the sort that was not intended for sleeping but instead for wandering around the house.

“Pretty words will not sway me, sir," despite the pain she went to turn over.

“please, don’t," he said., and he seemed a little pained as he said it. “I could not bear to have you look on me yet.”

“Are you a monster then, sir, like in Mrs Shelley’s book?” Lydia asked archly. She had lost a day to this awful place and this stranger was now both claiming to be her husband and to deny her even a look upon him.

“Sometimes, love, I think that I am.” His answer was smooth, as if he had practised it over and over. “I have not been myself these past few years, and I would prefer that I was myself again before I had you look upon me. Your eyes are too lovely to sour with my countenance.”

Lydia gave an exaggerated sigh. “Do what you will, sir, but I continue to need evidence of who you are, if you make a single move towards the bed I shall scream and I am sure at least one of the footmen will come running.”

Peter, if he was who he claimed to be, laughed. “That would confirm my identity, certainly, when they leave, blushing and closing the door behind them.”

“Are you going to ravish me then?” Lydia asked, “for I am injured.”

“I know, my aunt is very old and has long since lost her mind. I cannot imagine what her nurse was thinking that she asked you to bring up her tray and I can only apologise.”

“She called me a slattern, a trollope and a _houri_." Lydia said, “will you also apologise for that?”

"I can do no more than apologise, no i have no intent to harm you or see you hurt.”

Lydia yawned, it was probable that there was more laudanum in the water but not as much as had been in the gin that Danielle had given her in the kitchen. “You talk sweetly, sir, but I still do not have proof that you are who you claim to be, and not some opportunistic alpha who is now aware of an omega maiden.”

“And how can I prove my identity to you, you were a child the last we met, your parents had approached my sister about sponsoring you in society, you were perhaps five. My sister harboured hopes that you might marry Alex as you were of an age.”

Lydia asked. “Is that the duke?”

“No, the duke is Roderick,” he answered, “Alex died.” He took a deep breath before he continued, his voice soft and calm, and she could feel herself falling asleep no matter how hard she tried not to. The wool that had fogged her brain, and lodged in her mouth when she had woken, was descending again. “He was a sweet boy, an alpha by birth but an omega by temperament, he never wanted to leave his Mama’s leading strings. You, of course, hated him on sight.” It was easy to lie there and listen to him, he was clearly making no attempt at all to move towards her, sat in the easy chair with its back against the window that she had questioned but ignored when she had moved into the room.

“He followed you around like a puppy and you wanted nothing to do with him, you even pushed him over at one point which earned you a scolding.”

“I don't remember,” Lydia said.

“The only person you would even talk to was me, you brought me your favourite book, Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, I remember it very clearly, you sat beside me on the couch, handed me the book and demanded that I read it to you. When I saw the title I had assumed that it was French, but it had been translated, or it was in English anyway, but they were folk tales, about a terrible beast who stole a beautiful girl away. I teased you that I would steal you away and take you to a palace far from everyone.”

“You did," she drawled, sleep heavy upon her, she was fighting it off.

“You told me to," but she didn't hear the rest of what he said as sleep claimed her.

The next morning when she woke there was a ring on her finger, but no other sign that he had touched her at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Heather woke Lydia with breakfast on a tray and a large pot of coffee. Whilst Lydia ate Heather fussed through her chest of clothes, hanging most of the gowns in the wardrobe as she did, gushing over the fine work and how they must have come from Paris to be so beautiful, but weren't they a little inappropriate. Around a mouthful of sausage Lydia explained that she had not known that she would come to Maunlilie so quickly and so although she was sure a more appropriate wardrobe was being made and would be sent on, she still had her society gowns.

On the sideboard, where it had not been before, was a jewelry chest. Lydia noticed it in passing but made the assumption that someone had delivered it the day before perhaps, or she had just missed it. It was only then that she remembered that her husband had called on her, as Heather laid out a cotton dress that buttoned up the front so he must have been responsible for its delivery.

He had sat in the chair that Heather draped the dress over. He told her he had known her as a child. He had tried to answer her questions but she still wasn't sure that he was her husband. When she looked at her hand a ring was there, where there had not been.

It was gold, with an emerald set in the center, surrounded by pearls, and then in a frame a few smaller pearls, but the band itself had been carved, or set, to resemble roses. It was a beautiful ring but not something she would choose for herself. So this is my wedding ring, she thought, at least it's not hideous.

She let Heather dress her, although the dress was perhaps too fine, and allowed her to tie on the leather boots that did not match but were so much more suitable. Heather didn't notice the ring. “Will it be fine if I walk the dogs?" Lydia asked, the house, as huge as it was, suddenly felt claustrophobic.

"I’m sure Lord Peter won't mind,” Heather said as she finished tying back Lydia’s hair. “I normally just take them out to the Herbarium behind the church, it’s not too far, and it stops Aidan complaining when they relieve themselves on the lawn. Gremlin's a digger, you have to watch her for that. Gunther wants to bring half the woods in, and given the opportunity, Colonel will bury herself in the compost.”

“You have a herbarium?” Lydia asked, waiting as Heather opened the door for her.

"Oh yes, it was a folly but his lordship converted it when he married,” she was chattering along, “of course that was years ago so most of the herbs are all grown in, but the poisonous ones are locked away in glass cases, but all the kitchen scraps and the garden cuttings go into the compost and the dogs love it, it's not far to walk, but there’s been more than once I’ve gone to see my Jordan, I mean, Mr Parrish, trailing cabbage leaves from my hems.” She laughed to herself.

“So, that’s the man you're to marry?” Lydia asked, “Jennifer said you would be leaving us at summer's end.”

“He’s a doctor," Heather said, suddenly shy, “and he's a good man, but I don't know that I want to leave Maunlilie, Danielle is my dearest friend and I love looking after the dogs, and the work’s hard, yes, but I do love it, and the Duke only seems stern, but I love him, and it's what I should want, isn't it.”

"I think you should want what you want," Lydia answered. “You don't have to end your life because you’re married, it's not like other people are making those decisions for you." She sounded a little bitter to herself as she said it.

“That’s easy for you to say," Heather answered, “you’re an omega.” They continued in silence until they reached the kitchen.

 

The kitchen was a large room, whitewashed with a window that overlooked a small herb garden, Lydia wondered why there was one if there was a herbarium, but she didn't ask, and the dogs were at the door to the brew house, through the laundry where her chemise was hanging, with one sleeve missing, to dry. “You got the blood out.” She exclaimed.

Heather rolled her eyes. “Our Danielle is a miracle worker.” It was said as if it was a self-evident truth.

“After tasting her coffee,” Lydia said, “and the wonderful breakfast she put together for me I’m inclined to agree, but surely a place as big as this has its own washer woman. I mean it has its own laundry.”

“The house is shut up,” Heather shrugged, “We don't have half the staff we should, they all leave.”

Danielle snorted something into the pot she was stirring that sounded suspiciously like “Jenny of the woods.” Lydia delicately ignored it because she didn't know what it meant.

“I am going to take the dogs for a walk to the Herbarium, is there anything I should know?” Lydia asked, double tapping her hand against her thigh to get the dog’s attention. She wasn't sure if the dogs were trained to react to it but they got up from where they were sprawled and moved across to her, Colonel in a strange twisting run that almost saw her fall over her own ass.

“There’s sticky weed along the path,” Danielle said, “be careful not to get it on your skirt, make sure you turn left at the sign, or you’ll end up in the village, unless that’s where you’re heading, and don't let the dogs shit on the lawn, Aidan will never let you hear the end of it. Now shoo, before someone," she eyeballed Colonel who was yipping and asking to be lifted as Lydia squatted and tried to fuss the three dogs equally, “pisses over my floor.”

—

It was a fine May morning and Lydia had to admit that this part of Wales was beautiful in such weather. Gunther and Gremlin matched her pace, loping along at her heels, Colonel showed no such compunction, running a few paces ahead then remembering that she was being walked and doubling back, which usually involved her losing her balance like she was a much younger puppy. There was a soft breeze that rolled off the hills, she could not see the sea from here although she knew it was not far, as she walked through the estate.

She found the signpost easily enough, one side leading to the estate farm and the other in the village. To the north was the wilderness that had been left in the estate, where the gardeners didn't go but there were a few tracks here and there if people cared to walk through the mud. The smell of the sea was stronger here suggesting that there might be a cove somewhere near about, but she continued on the path to the estate farm, and instead of lawns to her left, there were fields of sheep and a haha to stop the animals escaping, but she could see the herbarium now. It was a walled and gated garden built into a natural dip in the hills, the walls were thick and there was a building inside the walls. As she walked closer she could hear voices.

“It doesn't matter if she doesn't like it," the woman said.

“She's still Vidama." A male voice answered, Lydia had not been in the house long enough to recognize it, it could have been one of the farmers who lived in the area.

“She’s not long for this world anyway," the woman said with a smile in her voice, “she’s the seventh bride after all," they went quiet after that apart from a few groans that suggested more than overhearing their conversation she had stumbled upon a tryst and had no interest in discovering what it was that they were up to, just walked a bit quicker down the path even as she flushed red with embarrassment.

—-

The air around the herbarium was sweet with early growth lavender and other herbs she knew and some she did not, very few of them in season, as she walked around, past the gate, to the compost where the dogs pelted forward eager to relieve themselves. They were clearly well trained, and Lydia had wondered who had done it if Lord Peter was a recluse. Well, Gunther and Gremlin were well trained, Colonel was a furry lunatic.

Whilst the dogs were attending to their business she pushed open the gate to take a look inside, reassuring herself when she saw the ring on her finger that she was Lady Hale, all of this belonged to her husband’s family and there was nothing to stop her doing this.

There was a figure kneeling beside one of the herb beds, wearing a beaten up old straw hat and a black split skirt, such as an omega would wear for riding, and a blue felt smock that was embellished with red and white embroidery. Lydia wondered if this was the witch she had heard talked about, the one Jennifer was convinced was leaving fetches around the house.

“Hello, there," she called out and the figure turned, standing up and brushing his gloves down on the fabric of his skirt. It was a man, she noticed, well, a vidame, judging by the proud points of his ears on display under the sun hat. The smock he wore looked well worn, with the square collar and short sleeves fraying now that she looked at it, it was clear that he was dressed for work in the garden, and had a beaming grin. He had brown eyes that the light caught in such a way that they were remarkable, and a soft looking mouth under a button nose. He was a very attractive male omega, tall and lithe as they often were, but not to her taste.

“You must be Lydia," he said, pulling off his glove and offering her his hand to her to shake. “I’m Stiles, are you walking the dogs?”

“Yes,” she answered, and then smiled, this was the kindest anyone had been to her. “I’m Lydia, how do you know who I am?”

“Do you think it’s every day an omega of your caliber comes to Maunlilie, I didn't think you’d come until the end of the season, I thought Himself would bring you back, but if you’re full of personality you’ll suit Peter better. Don't let him walk over you.”

"I am yet to meet him." Lydia couldn't help that words fell from her mouth. “Apart from Heather and Danielle, I do not feel welcome in the house at all. Lady Amabel attacked me.” Her hand went to her arm.

“I am to go into town later, would you like to accompany me?” He asked, “Maunlilie is such a dour place, and if I get the chance later I shall speak to Peter on your behalf.”

“Why would he listen to you?” She asked.

“Because I won’t take no for an answer.” He said blithely, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle and the dogs came bounding through the gates to him, and if Colonel had been delighted to see Lydia she was in paroxysms of glee over Stiles, he picked her up with a grunt, “you’re getting fat little girl," he said scratching her chin, “I won't be able to lift you soon, but that means we have to get all the cuddles in now.” Colonel responded to this by trying her best to wriggle closer to him and licking his face. "I give her bacon." Stiles said, with a smile, “because she’s my best little girl, aren’t you?”

“Are you married?” Lydia asked because Stiles seemed to have a lot of autonomy which was unheard of for society omegas.

“Yes," he answered, “but Himself is in London, so there’s just me and Boyd in the Gatehouse, Boyd is my,” he stopped, clearing looking for a word, his magnificent eyes looking up and to the left as he screwed up his mouth. “Boyd is Boyd, he looks after me and makes sure I don't do something like burn down the house or run off with a wandering minstrel. I swear my husband thinks that I would go for a walk and end up in Lincoln when he was the one who left me in the coach house.” He continued in this vein as he put Colonel down, giving both Gunter and Gremlin a pat on their heads for sitting so beautifully, picked up his basket and linking his arm through Lydia's much as Jennifer had done when they first met. “We should go back to the Gatehouse and get some tea, I don't know about you but I’m parched and my back is aching, also Boyd will have conniptions if I go into town dressed like this," he looked down, “but it's so comfortable. I’m considering getting someone to make me more of these, I mean I stole this one from Baba, not that she wears it anymore, but she just makes this noise, this hmmm noise whenever she sees me wearing it, did I mention I live with my grandmother, she’s an omega too, she’s a midwife," and as they walked out of the Herbarium Lydia found that Stiles didn't stop to breathe, and she liked that about him.

It had taken a lot, but she got the impression she had made a friend, one who did not mistake her for someone else, or have rude intentions upon her, or deferred to her title, and she liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any terms come up you don't understand or names you see and go - that's not pronounced like it looks (as a rule if it's british probably not) just drop me a line in the comments, I can add it to the next chapter notes no problem
> 
> and the book Peter said he read to Lydia last chapter - it does exist - it's the original novel form of Beauty and the Beast
> 
> Baba is eastern european for grandmother


	7. Chapter 7

The Gatehouse that Stiles lived in was a large house that looked to have been a farmhouse at some point in its life, before being repurposed. There was nothing resembling a gate but there was a road that ran outside it. He had a small vegetable garden and rose bushes that grew up the side of the house, which appeared to have been built at the same time most of the extensions had been put on Maunlilie. It was the sort of house a reasonably wealthy alpha owned, and the sort Lydia herself had grown up in. It was the sort of house she had expected to marry out of, but Maunlilie was so vast, and so unwelcoming she immediately wanted a house like Stiles had. It was surrounded by spruce trees that offered it a soft shade and cool. In the garden was a goat that Stiles called "princess" that tried to eat his smock when he got too close.

“This is home," Stiles said as the dogs ran to the open back door, “Baba will be inside, she is supposed to live in the village but with Himself in London she’s staying with me, she’s a little...” He shrugged, “Jenny of the woods calls her a witch, you’ll get used to her.” He paused on the threshold, “she might want to see that cut on your arm though, she thinks Dr Parrish is useless and always wants to check his work.”

Boyd, who was a large black man with expressive eyes who didn't speak, just shrugged as if to say “see what I put up with," or possible “I’m not paid enough to live in this open air asylum.” Lydia was willing to admit that both were an option.

Stiles’ kitchen was not much smaller than the one that they used in Maunlilie which surprised her. There were white washed cabinets stacked with plates and cups, dried herbs for cooking hung in one corner, and live ones in pots were against the window. A kettle hung over a trivet in the fire although there was a range, much like the one that Danielle used, and a bread oven built against the back wall.

Like Danielle's kitchen in Maunlilie it had the aura of being the heart of the home, and sat at the wooden table, which appeared to be freshly washed with salt, and creating something with yarn and a hook was the woman that Stiles called “Baba.” She was an elderly omega wearing a delicate lace cap, one that was more for decoration than modesty and a sensible grey gown with an apron pulled up over the bodice as she worked. “Don't you dare put that dog on the table." She said without looking up from her work, "I’m not getting dog hairs all over this.” It was said so nonchalantly that it was clear that given the chance Colonel was going to be on the table and it was something so normal that she did not bother looking up.

“Baba,” Stiles said, as Boyd busied himself with making three cups of tea, using different cannisters for each of them, “this is Lady Lydia. Peter’s wife.”

At that Baba looked up, she had the same golden eyes as Stiles, and there was a look of him about her mouth but the years had been unkind to her. There were wrinkles born of worry about her eyes and mouth, and she maintained a sourer expression than he did. She was too old to be his mother, so Lydia made the guess that she was his grandmother, her hands kept up their deft work as she talked. “You poor child,” her voice suddenly fond. “Are you the one that old crow slashed up, and having to share a house with the ghost of Maunlilie and that Jenny of the woods.” She patted the table indicating that Lydia sit. She spoke with a rich accent and her voice was like Stiles, although his accent was harder to pin down. It certainly wasn't the sing-song of the Welsh and neither was her’s. “Did that Dr Jordan treat you well, do you want me to send Boyd out of the room so I can take a look?”

Boyd clattered the cups as he made the tea, using small rags of muslin to strain it into the cup.

“Boyd," the way she said it it sounded more like voyt, “for someone who cannot talk you certainly have no problem expressing yourself.” Boyd reacted by giving her her tea with a mocking smile. “We have guests, kochanie," the word rolled from her mouth, and Lydia got the impression that this was an ongoing battle between the two that was more playful than hateful. “Show us those wonderful manners that Lady Laura prized you for.”

Boyd pulled a face and did not take one of the cups for himself as he put them in front of both Stiles and Lydia. “Baba," Stiles corrected, “stop picking on Boyd, he has enough woe in his life, he lives with us.” Boyd gave another gallic shrug. “Boyd, go get the barouche so we can go into town, after I run," both Boyd and Baba gave Stiles a dark look, “it’s a turn of phrase," he protested, “after I pop upstairs and change.” He looked down at his tea and made a face, “again, I had two cups of this barely an hour ago." He protested.

“it is good for you.” Baba said calmly. Lydia’s own tea was what was probably orange pekoe, flavoured with dried rose petals, a few of which had made it through the muslin. It was likely that Baba was drinking the same thing.

“It tastes nasty." Stiles protested.

“And that, kochanie, is how you know it is good for you.” His grandmother answered calmly, Lydia just smiled into her tea.

“What are you making?” Lydia asked, they had eschewed titles as she had read was common amongst groups of omega, everyone here was vidama or vidame so the rules of propriety did not apply.

“Arianrhod in the village, she is close to pupping, she has the accomplishments of a horse," that was said with a glance at Stiles who grinned at her, that clearly was something they argued over a lot, “she is a sweet child but has the sense that god gave a mouse, I promised to help her with her layette.”

“Baba is a midwife." Stiles said.

“Midwife," the old woman rolled her eyes, “I am an omega, from a long line of omega, of course I can deliver a child.”

“You’re the one that Jenifer calls a witch." Lydia said, the words slipping out of her before she realised that they might be very inappropriate.

“Talk about a pot calling the kettle black." Stiles muttered.

“Witch, it is the nicest thing she calls me," Baba said bluntly, “what spell she weaves over that house I do not know, but given the chance I would run her out.” She took an angry mouthful of her tea, regardless that it was still too hot to drink. “Now, tell me, laska, have you met that husband of yours.”

“He came to my bedroom last night." Lydia said with a wry twist of her mouth.

“That is so like him, he will not bother to say hello but will take his alpha rights.”

"Oh no," Lydia corrected, “he didn't touch me at all, he just talked." Both Lydia and Stiles raised an eyebrow. “I think he’s shy.”

Stiles spat tea over himself as he burst out laughing. “Peter Hale is as shy as Colonel,” he said. “I've never known a man who loved himself more.”

“I do not know, there was that priest in Shropshire." Baba corrected.

“Yes, he might give him a race for his money.” Stiles agreed. “Now I am going to change and we can go into town and you can tell me all about London.”

“If your husband is in London,” Lydia said, “why did you not travel with him?”

“Circumstances changed." Stiles said, “Baba, don't scare her too much, she’s new.” Baba made a dismissive noise before she went back to her work.

 

—

The barouche obviously belonged to the estate, as it had the Hale crest on the side, but no one seemed bothered that Boyd had taken it and two of the horses. Stiles had come down the stairs wearing a corduroy frock coat over a white omega vest, one that reached to his mid thighs. "I need to get new clothes." He said as he pulled himself up into the barouche. The coffee brown coat was embroidered with sprays of silver ferns and pink roses. “I don't know why I can't just go to town in my smock. It's comfortable." Boyd just looked at him.

"I think you look very fine," Lydia said, stretching out to fix his hair.

"I shall have to learn how to tell when you are being sarcastic.” Stiles said settling himself into the seat of the barouche, “because right now, I can't tell, I hate this coat, I should have taken one of his,” he was grousing, “or maybe one of Boyd's. Boyd looked over his shoulder at him with his eyebrow raised, “so maybe not one of Boyd’s, or I could go into town in my smock.”

“I’m sure it’s very comfortable." Lydia said, “which almost makes up for it being ugly and completely threadbare. Why don't you bring it into town and have a set of new ones made for wearing around the house and grounds.” It sounded reasonable.

“Because then I’d have to go without whilst they cut up my old one to make a new one.” And clearly reasonable only went so far.

“You look very fine," Lydia told him.

"Peter bought me this coat.” Stiles said, “he sent to London for it, so I would have something to wear during the season. I have a matching vest but it's silk and best suited to a ballroom than...”

“You know my husband better than I.” Lydia said and there was no regret in her voice as Boyd pulled the barouche onto the road.

“I've known him since I was a child.” Stiles told him, “I don't remember not knowing him.” He took a deep breath, fussing with his hands on his lap. “Peter’s,” he stopped, “Peter’s vain, narcissistic, and manipulative, he’s also loyal, fierce, brilliant, and in the depths of a terrible melancholia, he has good days and bad, you must be patient with him, and if he hurts you, strike him with a parasol. It's always worked for me.”

He offered Lydia a smile as she opened her parasol to shade her from the morning light which was becoming strong. "I would like to know him.” She said, “he is a stranger to me that keeps coming into my room to watch me sleep. It is not a mark in his favour.”

“Peter worked for the Foreign Office in Vienna for a long time.” He said, “then there was the fire, and he never got over that, even though he healed. He's scarred, and I wonder if he doesn't think that you will reject him if you saw him.”

"I am his wife," Lydia protested, “I cannot reject him by law. I did not choose this marriage but yet I am here, in a house where the servants despise me, my husband ignores me, and most of the doors are locked to my way. The only thing that has accepted me are the dogs. His aunt slashed my arm with a piece of broken glass, things appear and disappear in my room, and...”

Stiles reached across and took her hand. "I can tell you what I know but for a lot of things you will have to ask Peter, and no one hates you in the house, except Matt and Jennifer, but they hate everyone. It's a new place and it seems much worse than it is, but if you need to, you can always come stay at the Gatehouse, Peter will understand, and I tell you this, if you wanted to leave Peter would find you a house where you could live comfortably, with his melancholia he might even believe it is the best option.”

Stiles rolled his shoulders, letting his hips slip forward on the bench of the barouche. “I know Peter was worried about you coming here,” he said, “Peter’s not all bad, give him a month, and if, at the end of June, you are still unhappy here, I’ll work with Himself to get you somewhere else to live, there are plenty of properties on the estate, if you want to live in Wales, a few in Shropshire, even one in London.” She calmed, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of peppermints, offering her one. “Enough of these dark topics, tell me all about London, I hope to go for the season next year.”

“You are an omega that is allied to the duchy, why have you not had a season?” Lydia asked.

"I married young." Stiles answered with a shrug, “Himself knew the first time that he saw me that I would be his, it's strange, when an omega imprints themselves on an older alpha it is considered romantic, but when the alpha is older, too young to understand truly although we grew into it well enough," Stiles smiled to himself, “well then it's considered possessive. Baba was against the union, said that we were too young, he was barely twenty, but he had to go to the peninsula and could not decide if he was more scared that he would die and I would marry another, or another would swoop in and steal me away, so he petitioned Baba until she agreed to let us wed, by special license. I do not remember a time when I did not know I was to be his.”

“Did you choose it?” Lydia asked.

“IF you mean would he have accepted my refusal if I had offered it?” Stiles asked, “yes, I truly believe that he would have, oh he would have moped, there would have been tears, perhaps singing outside my window," he smiled, “more singing under my window, Baba did not throw a bucket of water upon him, but the whole bucket, but there is a comfort in knowing that he loves me that dearly.” The smile was a charming private thing, “Every day I thank God that he was not present for the fire, I think if I had lost him I would have died that day too.”

Lydia took a moment before she spoke because she had always wanted that kind of love and had resigned herself to marrying McCall simply because she could not bear to disappoint him by saying no. “You spoke of a fire, twice now you have mentioned it.”

Stiles sighed, and even Boyd's shoulders, where he was driving the Barouche, dropped a little, “it was nearly ten years ago now, the Hale family have, or should I say had, a long standing feud with the Argent family. In the civil war the Argent family lost most of their wealth, and when they approached Lady Talia, the Duchess at the time, about mending bridges she was wary but she spoke of forgiveness in parliament and so she could offer no less. Just after Christmas she invited her family to the Shropshire estate, The Grange, for a feast, Laura, I mean Lady Eustacia-Lorelei, Lord Roderick and Lady Persephone were absent, Persephone, Cora, was staying in the cottage that the Duchess had given to Baba and I, nearer the village, Baba is very well respected midwife, was even before she came to England.” He took another deep breath as if the very telling pained him. “It was a cold night, I remember that, and it had been raining all day, but Vidama Argent was invited as she was courting Thomas, he was so shy and nervous he would have done anything to please her just because she was paying attention to him. She drugged their wine, locked all the doors and the shutters, then set the house on fire for a slight only the Argent family understood.”

He saw silent for a few long moments. “Peter was the only one to get out alive, he had little Henry in his arms, and his shirt caught fire, he landed in the mud when he jumped out of the window. Henry was already dead, Peter not far behind him. Baba spent months bringing him back from the brink of death but she couldn't cure his melancholia.”

“And Vidama Argent?” Lydia wondered if she was any relation to Miss Argent, the charming alpha girl she knew in London. Then decided that she could not be, afterall Miss Argent was charming and sweet, more a beta in her demeanour than a vile omega who might do such a thing.

“She had arranged to run off to Gretna with a Scottish alpha, I think she intended to set him as an alibi, but the court found her guilty. She pled the belly and being a lady was given house arrest.” There was another pause, “once the child was born her husband had her committed to Bedlam and she’s still there. If she leaves, or even tries to, she’ll hang for what she did. Her alpha, Harris, just wanted an heir, he used her as much as she used him, and her family disowned her, but still, the fire is an open wound, and Peter, vain, beautiful Peter was burned badly. You must be patient with him.”

Lydia had no answer for that so she sat silent as Boyd as the barouche continued on it's way into the town of Llandudno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kochanie is pronounced Koh-HAN-ya, and is a petname meaning darling  
> laska is a petname meaning chick, it literally is a baby chicken  
> Arianrhod - is pronounced ar-ee-ANN-roht, so you sublimate the d at the end, it's not a hard sound at all, it's almost swallowed


	8. Chapter 8

The town of Llandudno was clearly built around the annual influx of the rich travelling to the coast, there were hotels along the seafront, raised behind a wall and a road from the sandy beach. It was framed on either side by the large hills, although she would not have thought that the population was more than six hundred people. After London it felt positively tiny and quiet, although Stiles told her, as he prattled on about one thing or another, sometimes his husband whom he only ever called “himself”, that there was a rousing social scene in the summer, as many families would come and had large houses in the town, so there were balls, and routs, and one family, who Stiles named but Lydia immediately forgot the name of, ran a fabulous game of hazard.

Boyd didn't say anything, but during the drive Stiles did inform her, amidst a great deal of mindless gossip, that Lady Eustacia-Lorelei, who everyone called Laura and she might as well, had been the heir to the duchy as the eldest alpha left alive after the fire, Horatio had been but he had died, but Laura had rejected the duchy, and ran off with another alpha to the Americas and now lived in Chesapeake where she was a ferocious abolitionist, and although the duke had been urged to cut her off to avoid scandal he had funded her as much as she wished in her work, and both Boyd and Danielle had come to work in the house due to her employment.

Lydia had just assumed that Boyd was shy, and had not decided to ask any other questions.

She learned quickly that for as much as Stiles talked, and it was a lot, he rarely gave away any private information about himself, and she was not comfortable enough to push. She did, however, tell him all about London and her suitors. She told him about that last masquerade and the dress she had worn, stitched with beads of facetted Bohemian glass and embroidered with silver thread, with a stiffened lace collar and a fichu of finest cotton batiste, and a ceramic crown of flowers that she valued for far more than it's cost.

She told him about the dark alpha who had attended the same balls that she had, and who stared at her as if he was going to tell her something unpleasant but never approached her. She told him about Scott McCall whom she had thought that she would marry simply because she could not bear to disappoint him, and when she was the focus of his attention it was like the world stopped and there was only the two of them and how it felt like being shot in the neck when it happened.

She told him about her other suitors, Mr. Raeken who made her feel uncomfortable but would have burned the world to please her, and Dr. Haberland who appreciated her intelligence but she always felt like she left him behind. And she told him about her Sun king who had teased her and challenged her and she didn't even know his name.

He told her about his husband who often seemed surly but was as soft as unspun cotton underneath, and about how as a child, for Stiles was very close to Lydia in age, that Peter had run races with several of the staff with Stiles upon his shoulders, and the others with children similarly placed.

Stiles wanted Lydia to think well of Peter, and maybe she would but the truth was that she did not know him.

—-

After Stiles had abandoned them outside the modistes, although he insisted on calling it a dressmaker, and sent them for tea Lydia took the opportunity to walk through the town, appreciating the sea breeze upon her face, although Boyd was not too keen on her walking along the beach in the shoes that she was wearing, steering her instead away from the steps down to the water and along the sea wall.

Stiles had been right, for someone who didn't talk he had no trouble expressing himself and could say more with a displeased eyebrow than Stiles had managed all morning, and eventually directed her to a pie shop, walking straight past the tea shop that faced it with a nod that suggested that he knew things.

He managed, without saying a word, to order a pair of slices of eel pie in a pile of pease pudding and two large cups of gin. He just gave her a tired sigh that suggested that he needed it even if she didn’t.

Sitting with him was calming, he expected no conversation and offered no judgement about her, sometimes about the people around them, in particular, one beta woman in a truly awful dress that appeared to be made of the worst shade of yellow orange in the world and clashed terribly with her olive skin and ash blonde hair, and scarlet hat. The face he pulled had Lydia laughing into her cup.

“I have heard," a voice said from another booth, Lydia could not see who it was that had spoken, “that Lord Peter has married.”

“It seems his melancholia does not impede him, certainly." Another man answered, “isn't that the seventh bride?”

At that Lydia started to listen more intently, for she had expected the sort of bawdy conversation that men shared when they believed they were alone.

"I’ve heard that this one is a diamond, and it says what money can buy if she is the seventh wife he’s had." The first man's voice was rougher, “I mean it's not like it isn't well known that he murdered his first six wives.”

“They’re buried out on the estate," his companion answered, “I’m told the six of them were lookers, each richer than the last, it's why the Hales have so much blunt.”

“It’s why the duke and his bride don't live up at the big house.” Lydia gritted her teeth and her knuckles whitened around the glass of gin, as she raised her hand for the girl to bring her more. “They're scared Peter will have his way and bury the body of the duke's bride on the estate with his own”

“How long do you think she’ll last?”

There was a scuffling, “I'll put a guinea on it, no more than six months.”

Lydia downed the glass of gin completely with a cough, and let the girl fill the glass again. She had heard the term before, someone had only this morning called her the seventh bride. This was clearly why Stiles wanted her to like Peter, so she might be happy before he murdered her. No wonder her parents had been bought off, it ensured their silence. No wonder everyone at the estate treated her like a servant, she wasn't to stay, no, she thought, she was to stay, buried in the estate.

Curse Peter Hale and all his family. She would not stay to be murdered, she would take the opportunity to run, she would, she would not be weak any more.

Boyd reached across the table and put his hand on hers, nodding before he moved across to the booth and there was some commotion, before he came back and offered his arm to Lydia. She looked back at the two men who were sitting dumbstruck and scared in their booth, the guinea was gone from the table.

Later she found it in her reticule where Boyd had placed it, and put it into her jewellery chest like it was a diamond the size of her fist.

—-

When she returned to Maunlilie she hunted down Jennifer and demanded that she take her to her husband’s chamber for she wished to confront him about the troubling rumours. There was no way that they could be true she decided. A nobleman might get away with the murder of a prostitute but not six women of society, even in a place like Wales, and Lydia had no real dower to speak of, so she had not been married for her money. In fact, the opposite was true, she had been purchased from her parents for five hundred pounds a year, which was a fine living for a gentleman, or even minor noble. It was, after all, the yearly wage of fifty menials.

It was not unheard of for families like the Hales to give minor families that produced Omega children a small allowance, usually fifty or so pounds a year for their education with the expectation that when they were grown they would marry into the family. The children would be raised together knowing that they would be married. That was not what had happened to Lydia.

“His Lordship does not like to be disturbed.” Jennifer said and went to bristle past, “I have duties, Vidama, I cannot stand about all day gossiping.” The woman did have a bundle of laundry in her arms, however she also had an expression that looked like it might curdle milk.

“I did not ask for your opinion on what his lordship does or does not like." Lydia said, finding her backbone against the woman, she remembered how almost everyone called her “Jenny of the woods” and did not like her, she must have been excellent at her job that she had not been fired simply for her attitude. Although Lydia would have words with her husband about it. “I told you I wished to visit his chambers. You are paid to serve the wishes of the Hale family of which I am a member, you will tell me which of these rooms are his and can continue with your work.”

“Of course, my lady." The gesture might have been more honest if she had not simpered so, and gave Lydia directions to the room which was, of course, on the opposite side of the house, but would have had a wonderful view of the forest and the sea beyond it.

—-

Peter’s room was in a finer part of the house than Lydia’s, the door made of what appeared to be solid oak and both painted and with cushions against the wood covered in fine silk. She had seen this done before, in fine houses in London but her own door was simply painted oak so she had assumed all of the doors would match because all of the ones that she had seen had. She knew there were finely stained doors to some of the locked main rooms but those were for guests.

She rapped politely on the door and waited, but there was no response

So she rapped harder.

There was no response.

“I know you’re in there." She called out, “Peter, open the damn door.” There was no sign of movement inside the room. “You owe me an explanation, damn you.” She kicked the door hard enough that she hurt her foot, “open the fucking door.” She was not the sort of lady who was often given to displays of anger or worse, uncouth language, but she felt like she was wrung out, and none was more surprised than she when she collapsed into herself weeping again, secure none could see her as she rested her face against the cushion on the base of the door.

When the weeping storm had passed she stood up and wiped her face with her fichu before stuffing the fabric into the pocket of her skirt. She was Lady Lydia Martin, no, Lady Lydia Hale and she was an omega of the first order, and the season's Incomparable, she did not weep at doors like a common scullery maid.

That night when Peter came to her in her room, Lydia made a point of adjusting the blankets and going to sleep, not letting him speak at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry about the delay, I really wasn't very well and this chapter didn't want to grow because of it  
> so better late than never.

The morning after she snubbed her husband, for which Lydia still felt entirely justified she found a book on her counterpane, one which was much finer than the one that had been in the room when she had first moved into Maunlilie. She had decided to ignore the way the furniture kept getting finer and more expensive. The old wooden chair had been replaced by a quilted velvet knotting chair. The linens had been replaced and heavy curtains had been hung over the window. Heather had claimed she knew nothing of it, and it might have been the twins, who mostly managed the garden, who had done it, but day by day something new and expensive showed up in the room.

One of the treasures was a large bound vellum book labelled _Ars Mathematica_ and she nearly wavered when she saw it, when she opened the cover it read “Ex Libris Johannes Dee" and if she had not been so angry at Peter she would have rushed to his room to thank him. Although the book was mostly in Latin, there were a few notes scribbled in the margin in Greek, and at least one in English, it was a treatise trying to work out the distance of the planets mathematically. It was truly named, it was a work of mathematical art.

It was the sort of gift that left her speechless as it suggested more about her than the jewellery.

It continued in that fashion for the next few days, for Lydia would merely huff when she found him in her room, refusing to acknowledge him and once pretending to be asleep with fake snores that made him laugh. But every morning there was a gift, a book of mathematics that made her waver.

On the sixth day on top of the book, a copy of Isaac Newton's calculations, she found a blind fold. “Would you do me the honour,” the note said, “of wearing this that we might talk, I do not know what it is that I have angered you with but I would apologise," floridly signed Peter.

She had spent her days with Peter and Baba, Boyd hovering in the background occasionally giving them cups of tea and making strange noises when Stiles tried something that Boyd did not like. Stiles was making a layette, hampered by the fact he seemed completely incapable of stitching a straight line, let alone the tiny delicate work needed for a baby’s cap. Lydia assumed the layette was for Rhiannon in the village who had, apparently, according to Heather, given birth to a 12 pound child and was giving her husband the stink eye and throwing things at him. She had heard it from Dr Parrish, although she often slipped and called him Jordan.

Every now and again Lydia tried to explore the house but most of the doors were locked and when they were not the furniture was covered in dust sheets. Along one of the corridors that led to the open ball room were six small oval portraits, each about the size of a dinner plate that Lydia knew to be the six brides who had preceded her. Each had clearly been painted by the same artist, three facing right over their shoulder, and three facing left, each of them wore a similar dress with barely anything but the edge of their fichu showing, and had their hair prettily arraigned and delicately covering the points of their ears. Four of them, two facing left and two facing right, had thick dark hair, although one had mousy blonde hair and one was a fair blonde.

In the first portrait was a handsome woman with an oval face, a hard mouth, dark skin and black eyes. She wore a chain that was visible over her shoulder and a drop pearl earring. There was a suggestion that she was wearing red, and had better things to do with her time than bother with sitting for a portrait. She was a little frightening, Lydia thought.

She faced left but the next two faced right.

The next woman was dark haired as well, but was finer featured, and her hair and skin were lighter, her mouth was softer and her eyes more almond shaped than the narrow eyes of the first woman, who looked a little bored and disapproving. There was a softness and calm to this woman that the first had lacked. She was beautiful but had a similar oval face.

The next woman was fair haired, her features more pointed with green eyes and a large expressive mouth, fairer features had been highlighted with rosy cheeks, and although her hair was mostly dressed up a fall of it fell over her shoulders. She looked to be the oldest of the women in the portraits.

The next two portraits faced left.

They were two dark haired girls who looked similar, although one had a softer mouth the other had larger almond eyes, and both were beautiful. The first, who had a handful of years upon the second, wore a choker of wire flowers that seemed very like one that Lydia had in her casket. The other had a ribbon.

The last portrait faced right and showed the beautiful pale blonde. Her eyes were a pale grey and her expression was sulky, her dress a dark gold and her hair a mass of soft curls. Lydia wondered what this girl had done, why she had been chosen when Peter clearly favoured brunettes. Perhaps she had been rich, but there were hints of colour in her hair.

Lydia wanted to tear the six portraits down, to throw them into the fire.

How dare he, she thought, every time she thought she might forgive him, she came to the wall and stared at them, the six who went before her, the six women who were almost certainly in the six cairns she had found in the woods. Had these women also stroked Colonel and thrown sticks for Gremlin and Gunther. Had they walked these halls and slept in the same bed she had. She would not be soon forgiving him.

“Beautiful, weren't they?” Jennifer said coming up behind Lydia, she never seemed to make any noise when she walked, even the Chatelaine on her belt was smothered by the fabric of her skirts. “The Ladies Hale.”

Lydia said nothing, she didn't comment on how Jennifer looked like she belonged among them with her soft doll like features, her dark hair and eyes, more than Lydia did. Perhaps Jennifer should have been the seventh bride, the seventh of these beautiful paintings.

"Of course,” Jennifer continued, “you know what happened, the way gossip lingers in this place it would be more surprising if you did not know.” Lydia remained silent. She bent down and lifted Colonel into her arms, lavishing attention on the dog so she wouldn’t look at Jennifer. “This house keeps secrets, perhaps it’s because it’s so old, William Hale, who built it, made sure of it. It’s where the Hales come to hide, to grow old and to die and bury their secrets.” In Lydia’s arms Colonel was a reassuring bundle, but she wanted to push past Jennifer but she was blocking the corridor. “Sometimes with so much death I go to the roof and think how easy it would be to just jump.”

Something shifted within Lydia. She had this memory of sitting with her brother and having hurt herself, she had burned herself on the fireplace poker, and she was crying and her brother, who at the time couldn’t have been more than five said, “you are not weak, you’re Lydia Martin and Lydia Martin doesn’t cry.”

In London she had made the decision that she would not be a victim, she would be the diamond of the _ton_. She was Lydia Martin and she made other people bow to her will, and she would not be cowed by a beta housekeeper. she was a peer of the realm and this house was hers, she would not give in to the petty bullying of this shrew. “Why don’t you then?” She said turning. “If you fixate on jumping, why not just jump, clearly you hate this house, you could of course just leave, but I think you enjoy being hated, I think you like being Jenny of the Woods or whatever it is that they call you. If you don’t mind, Jennifer,” she said pushing past her, “I have better amusements for my time.”

“I was simply making conversation, Vidama,” Jennifer replied briskly, “and to carry the message that your husband has requested your presence tonight at supper, promptly at ten.”

Lydia buried her fingers into Colonel’s silky hair, “if you are carrying messages for my husband,” she said although she did wonder why it was that Peter had not mentioned it in his note, “Tell him I shall be glad to attend, and make sure that around eightish that Heather has brought hot water to my chamber for a bath. Now I am sure that you have things that you should be attending to, good day.” And with that she brushed past Jennifer - Lydia would not give Jennifer the joy of seeing her waver.

\--

The day was unseasonably warm so after her usual walk through the grounds, which she usually found soothing, Lydia decided that she would go swimming in the private cove that she had discovered in her wandering. She changed her gown for a simpler dress, one that she had worn before she had gone to London because it buttoned up the front and allowed her to quickly shed it when she went swimming, although that had been with her sisters. She fetched herself a flax towel and a clean chemise, for she did not want to pull her dress back on over wet muslin. She gathered her hair into a braid at the nape of her neck, and rather than pin it into a knot, gathered it under a knit lace snood.

With her things in a basket that she had liberated from Stiles she went to the quiet cove, noticing the folly on the hill but not with enough interest to actually investigate it. The dogs accompanied her. They liked swimming more than she did. Even Colonel who was already frolicking in the waves, barking and dancing backwards with canine glee.

Lydia was smiling as she stripped down to her chemise, rolling up her stocking and shoving them into her boots before she walked into the water.

It was biting cold but it was exactly what she needed, the cold feeling like needles scouring her skin around her legs before she reached thigh depth and dove in.

The water felt like bliss against her skin, cold as it was so she swam until her muscles ached and even the dogs returned to laze on the sand watching her.

When she emerged from the water her basket was gone.

She searched for it for long moments before she was sure it had been taken and said some words that were not lady like, before she decided that she did not care. She was Lady Hale and she would act like it. Perhaps Queen Charlotte might not walk through the woods in a wet chemise because someone had taken her dress, but Lydia would walk like she was.

Matt, whom she thought was a footman although he never seemed to do any work, was in the conservatory when she entered, apparently picking through the orange trees. She had chosen the conservatory because she had hoped it would be empty. “Well, isn’t that a sight.” Matt leered, looking her up and down. The muslin was expensive so was mostly sheer, even without being damp and clinging to her frame.

“I beg your pardon,” Lydia snarled at him, “do you address all of the people in the the house with that manner or have you decided that I am somehow especially deserving of your attentions.” He was still staring at her breasts and not her face. “I am suddenly aware of why a man with such prospects and standing cannot find a maiden interested in his suit, for if he will look upon a vidama with such disrespect how must he treat a beta girl.” She lifted her chin, “and it is not like there is much there to please one,” she flicked her eyes to his crotch. “You should speak to Lord Peter about a pay rise, for you might be able to appease a potential wife with money, you certainly won’t with what nature gave you.”

“How dare you?” he hissed, his face was red with rage.

“How dare I? I am a vidama and Lady of this household, I dare all I damn well please, now if you don’t mind, Matthew, I am going to change, it seems someone,” she looked at him askance suspecting he was responsible, “took my clothes from the bay, perhaps they thought that they were doing me a favour, or were so hard pressed to see a woman naked that they had to engineer it.” Her smile was cruel when she graced him with it, “I hope the memory lingers, Matthew, because it will be a long time before you see another.”


	10. Chapter 10

Angry as she was, as soon as Lydia dressed, perfunctorily in the dress she had left in the cove over a fresh chemise. She brushed out her hair but did not braid it to let it dry after a quick rinse to get the worst of the salt from it. Then her decision made she decided she would not spend another minute in this house until she had to return.

Without the dogs, for they had decided to abandon her to accompany Heather on her cleaning, which mostly meant lying on rugs and being adored, she crossed through the woods past the six cairns to the herbarium. Stiles was her friend and he would listen politely as she complained about her awful day. She had no problems with helping him with his work in the herbarium which he had said that the Duke had built for him when he was a child before he had married.

The herbarium was a large brick garden built on several levels, so some areas were naturally shaded and others exposed to the sun. Some plants grew on the walls, of which Lydia only recognized wisteria which completely covered one wall in sweet smelling purple blossoms. There was a lawn of chamomile and other herbs she did not recognize, lavender slowly coming into bloom and a fountain that pattered in the center, providing a soft spray of water to the plants there.

To the rear of the property was a potting shed with a wall of glass and as Stiles was not among the herb beds she made the guess that that was where he was. She could not see Boyd but it was not unusual for them both to be busy in the potting or drying sheds.

She quickly crossed through the gravel paths to the potting shed, marveling at how Stiles and Boyd kept the place so tidy and opened the door without knocking.

Stiles was in the potting shed, but he was not alone. He was perched on one of the work surfaces with his pants missing, and an alpha that Lydia did not know was between his legs and thrusting. Stiles had both arms around the alpha’s back as the alpha kissed at his neck, and both feet were bouncing at the force of the thrusts as they made grunting noises, the air knocked out of him with each motion of their hips.

Lydia was so surprised she barely took note of the alpha's dark hair before she blushed clear to the roots of her hair and turned closing the door behind her. Her breath felt a little tight in her chest and she felt warm which she attributed to the blood currently flooding her cheeks. Stiles had a lover.

He was a dark haired man and now she thought of it she recognized him as the dark alpha, her dark alpha, who had stared at her so intently when she had been in London. She was speechless for she had thought that Stiles had seemed at least fond of his husband. Was that why Boyd had been asked to watch over him, Lydia thought, and if so, where was he, that Stiles could have such an assignation, and in the day time as well.

Unsure what else to do she went to the gatehouse that Stiles shared with his grandmother in the hope someone was present.

Baba was sat at the kitchen work table picking out stitch work in the layette that Stiles had been making with a pair of scissors. “Vidama,” she said, “won't you join me in tea?" and it was so nice to be addressed properly that Lydia said yes and sat at the table without wondering if it was appropriate.

After she had served a lavender tisane Baba went back to her mending, “I love my grandson dearly, and with all my heart, but he stitches like a drunken butcher.” She said and Lydia snorted a laugh. “All of that money spent on making sure he was accomplished and look,” she showed Lydia the stitch work.

“Are you sure that is not simply basting?” Lydia asked. The stitching was large and ugly.

“I wish that it were.” Baba said, “he stitches like he is sewing together a dog bite that must be left open to allow the wound to breathe, though I have told him it is like stitching together an artery, tiny invisible stitches. I despair of him, nor can he play the pianoforte.” Baba smiled to herself at that. “All that university level education and he cannot make a layette, can you stitch, Lydia?” With that, she pushed one of the articles, a pretty little baby’s dress across the table. “I do this whilst he is the herbarium, I can’t have people thinking the outfit was put together by monkeys.”

“Jennifer said that you were a midwife.” Lydia offered.

“Jenny probably said that I am a witch,” Baba spoke with a distinct accent but with the ease of someone who had spent years speaking the language. “She calls me a gypsy and a whore, but she is good at her job so I ignore the slurs, after all, I have been called much worse over the years, but yes, I am a midwife.” Baba put her sewing down for a moment, “has anyone spoken to you about pregnancy?”

Lydia blushed again, “I, he hasn’t come to me, not like that.”

Baba frowned a little, it seemed a comfortable gesture on her face, “one moment,” she said and put her snips on the table before she got up, and from a cabinet, that she unlocked with a key on her chatelaine, she pulled a large black bottle, then a smaller bottle and a funnel. She poured the contents of the first bottle into the smaller one and then corked it. Then from a jug, she filled a second, larger bottle although to Lydia it looked like water that she was pouring. She put the two bottles in front of Lydia.

Pushing forward the first bottle she said, “take five drops of this in water every morning, ten if you’ve had congress the night before, it will both ease your days and prevent a pregnancy catching, but it is not foolproof, especially if you forget to take it.” Gesturing to the other bottle she said, “this is a tonic for your blood, it does taste unpleasant but take a soup spoon of it every morning, you can add it to the same water, or even lemonade. Almost every omega I have ever met has had problems with their blood being thin, this will prevent that. And when you are ready to have a baby come back to me.”

“Aren’t these immoral?” Lydia asked.

“I’m a midwife, vidama,” she said with a shrug, “I find it more immoral to saddle people with children they are unready for or more than they can cope with or afford. If adding a tincture of chaste berry and Queen Anne's lace to water prevents it I will give as much of it as I can. My interest will always fall with the omega, not the alpha church.”

What followed as Baba worked on the baby dress in her hands and Lydia stitched the ruffles on an adorable baby bonnet was one of the frankest and possibly most disturbing conversations that Lydia had ever had. Baba was honest and open about copulation, babies and a few other things Lydia had never needed to know. Often she accompanied these explanations with hand gestures or stabbing motions with her snips. She had no patience for Lydia being embarrassed about these things and explained that sex was a wonderful thing when done right and really Lydia had nothing to worry about because Peter was such a cocksman.

“He won’t let me look at him.” Lydia said as Baba made her more tea, “he keeps trying to talk to me but insists I don’t look at him, and now he’s arranged for us to have supper together.”

“Supper is often a way into frolics.” Baba told her, “but Peter is vain. He was a very handsome young man and,” she stopped, spooning lavender into the pot, “do you have any scars, kochanie?” she said suddenly, “when you first scar it’s red and angry, and later when it fades, when almost no one can see it in your head it is still red and angry. Do you understand?” Lydia told her that she did.

“Half of Peter’s face was badly burned in the fire, he doesn’t see the scars as proof that he survived, that he saved Lady Persephone, he sees it as the failure to save everyone else, and he’s vain enough that he would rather haunt that old pile than admit that no one cares.” She put the pot down on the table and picked up her stitching. “You are beautiful, kochanie, don’t forget that and that might be why he hides from you, he has spent so many years trying to please you.”

“I didn’t know he existed until I was summoned.” Lydia cut her off.

“I only know what I heard from Talia and then Peter,” Baba said, “but that was your parent’s decision, not the Hale’s. What do you know about what happened?” Lydia told her what Peter had told her, that her parents had approached the Hales and that Alex was the alpha they expected her to bond with but she had chosen Peter. Baba nodded and then continued, “normally, at least in England, it is common for the parents of the alpha to sponsor the omega child in society with the expectation” she enunciated the word carefully, “that they marry when they are older. It is not an arranged marriage but the suggestion of one, Talia offered this to your mother with the sum of one hundred pounds a year.” Lydia questioned this for she had received five hundred pounds a year, her parents had been specific about that.

“Peter had just received his commission, and although he was a major in the Queen’s Dragoons he was being sent to Vienna by the foreign office, or was it Berlin, no it was Vienna, and your mother was worried he would marry someone else, a foreign princess perhaps, although those of us who knew him were pretty convinced he would never marry so she renegotiated. Perhaps she hoped that Peter would die on the peninsula. She wanted you to marry straight away. Talia thought that you thought it was a game, perhaps you did. There are worse things for a child than wearing pretty dresses and flowers. You were given the allowance that was due to Peter’s wife, I don’t know how much it was.”

“Five hundred a year,” Lydia said darkly.

“Did you never receive gifts you couldn’t explain, pretty trifles from Europe, books on the natural sciences and philosophies, gowns finer than you expected.” Lydia looked at the table because she and her siblings had received such gifts. She had believed those gifts were from suitor as she was an omega. “I imagine there were letters too, but Peter was so much older, and he was in the army, if only in name. Perhaps your mother hoped he would die,” she shrugged it off. “Mothers have done more in the name of all of their children.” And that was what Lydia’s parents had done, they had taken the money and used it for all of their children, they had used it to garner dowries and educations for their beta daughters, for land for their beta son. Lydia knew now she could find herself a solicitor and sue them for the money but it wasn’t worth it. She just hoped they realized that they had been cut off.

There was also a moment of impishness where she could spend the money Peter gave her as an allowance, five hundred a year was a lot of money and showed how wealthy that the Hales were. She wouldn’t need to rely on the staff in Maunlilie and Jennifer’s management of the house, five hundred was more than enough to buy her own staff and clothe them all in silk if she felt like it. She could set up her own household in London for five hundred pounds a year.

She suddenly felt a lot better about meeting Peter for supper that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The remedy Baba gives Lydia IS an actual contraceptive however I highly recommend you don't just take my word for it - look it up, research it, read around the topic before deciding it's what's best for you (even if that's just finding a contraceptive that works without the pressures of getting birth control in the US) and even then don't use it as your only, be SAFE, okay, I don't want you to go and take something you read in a fic as law and get yourself hurt


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is some consent issues in this chapter. Lydia gets very drunk and asks Peter to have sex with her, he refuses because she is drunk, it later comes out that she was a bit friendly with Liam when she got him to help her undress, it was not meant sexually she was just very drunk and is embarrassed about it. She later apologises off screen for smashing his face into her breasts whilst she was fully clothed.  
> nothing happens but Lydia offers, she probably wouldn't have if she had been sober.

Lydia Martin was drunk. She was aware of this on several levels, including the steady knowledge that someone who had drunk as much of the _pastis_ as she had should be drunk even without the room gyroscoping around her. She had asked poor Liam, the footman in training, to help her with her corset because she was drunk, and the poor lamb had, his ears so red that they looked fit to explode.

She had tried to seduce her husband. it might have gone better if he had attended the dinner he had arranged to share with her.

She had worn the finest gown in her wardrobe, one made of a silk called habotai where the weft was green and the weave was red so that the dress shimmered and changed colours as she moved, but the lining of her mantua was a soft pea green that matched the lace that trimmed the dress, was caught in waves at her elbows and formed pleats under her bosom, there was a silk corsage at one shoulder with green ribbons falling from it, and a cameo brooch she had found in her jewellery chest. Heather had pinned her red hair up into a crown of curls at the back of her head apart from a single ringlet that fell down over her shoulder, opposite to the corsage.

She finished the outfit off with the moonstone cross and a touch of rouge on her lips and went down to her favoured sitting room to wait to be called for supper. She had brought with her a book, a salacious novel that Baba had recommended to her but she wasn't really in the mood for reading.

She felt like her heart would have been in her mouth if not for the strict corseting of the gown.

The first _pastis_ had been an _aperitif_ to settle her nerves.

 _Pastis_ was what her father had drunk and so she had developed a taste for it because when she and her sisters had been good girls they were allowed to sip from papa’s glass. The green cloudy liquid, for she always diluted her _pastis_ with water, matched her gown she noticed around the third glass.

Liam, confused under a pair of thick eyebrows, stood at the door and every time her glass emptied he offered her more and she said yes, she had no reason not to after all. He wore a suit that appeared to be borrowed, perhaps from Matt the other footman, because it didn’t fit him, and kept shifting around on his feet, not sure what to do, and so leapt on the opportunity to fill her glass.

It was Matt that told her dinner was being served, although there remained no sign of her husband.

Danielle was serving, again suggesting the dearth of staff in the house. She half expected Jennifer to sit at the table but she sat alone. “If I wait any longer," Danielle said putting a bowl of mock turtle soup in front of Lydia, “dinner will be ruined, and I am not letting my hard work go to waste because someone is feeling shy.” Lydia was almost drunk enough to laugh.

She ate her meal alone. The food was wonderful, the _pastis_ went down easy, washing down mock turtle soup, beef in onion gravy and a sweet mint bavarois with champagne.

No one joined her, and apart from Liam she might as well have sat in the formal dining hall alone. There were paintings, one of which was a formal portrait of an omega done in the alpha style, but showing his ears proudly. There were three long scars across his cheek but he was lovely, but shown with his wealth with Maunlilie in the lands over his shoulder. She drank a toast to him.

When the final dishes were cleared away she got to her feet, her legs unsteady under her and she stumbled against Liam, with an orange stuffed in her fist. “My husband," she told him as he uncomfortably picked the pins from her hair, “is not a good man," Liam avoided saying anything, it was possibly the clever answer. “He could not even join me for supper. How am I supposed to like him if he does things like this?" she wiped at her face, sniffing back tears. “I hate this house, I hate this place, I hate him.”

Liam had looked like he might at any moment be devoured by a house sized demon as he had offered her a handkerchief. “There there," he said, patting her shoulder. As she sloughed out of her dress and climbed into her bed.

“I’m a little drunk." she told him. It was an understatement she was well and truly foxed. She was still holding the orange. She couldn't remember why and the room was spiralling away from her, from left to right, from right to left and switching the ceiling and floor in a gyroscopic motion that she did care for. She fussed around with her free hand, not wanting to give up the orange, until she found the blindfold and pulled it on, just to make the room stop spinning. "I hate him." She said.

“Sleep well, my lady,” Liam said and took the opportunity to flee from the scene which made him very uncomfortable.

Lydia did suppose she did sleep because when she next noticed the world her mouth was dry and felt like someone had laid out a aubusson carpet inside it when she was not paying attention. She tried to sit up but suddenly there were hands beside her. For a moment she thought it was Heather. “Here," the male voice, Peter’s voice, said, “Drink this.” The water was cold and flavoured with mint and she drank it greedily. “What were you thinking?”

Lydia was drunk and angry. “That maybe you would come to the supper you set up with me,” she tried to sit up but his hand on her shoulder kept her from twisting out of his grip and spilling the water all over herself. “That maybe I could be something other than a pretty trinket.”

“I’ve never thought of you as a trinket.” He said. “Lydia Martin is not only beautiful, not only incredibly intelligent, she is mine and I have never had use for trinkets.”

“Then why did you not come." She knew she was whining but couldn't quite make herself stop. She thought she might cry again.

"I did not know that you wanted me to.” He said softly, he was stroking her hair over her blindfold, and it was such a gentle gesture she leant into him. She had been so lonely.

“I don't know what I want." Lydia admitted. “I think I want you to fuck me.”

He made a noise before he continued to stroke her hair. “You’re drunk." He said.

"I should like to think so,” she said, “otherwise that was a lot of fine _pastis_ I wasted.” He huffed a laugh at her answer, “but really, you should fuck me.” Although her hands felt strange and misshapen, like they were made of clay, she found the tie of her chemise, “you said I was beautiful,” she said as she pulled the string letting the fabric fall from her shoulders. “Don’t you find me beautiful?”

He tugged the chemise back up around her shoulders, “do not tempt me so, love," he said, "I’m only human and you are very beautiful.”

“Then why won't you?” she thought she might cry again.

“Because you are drunk.” He said, “and I would not hurt you.” He laid a soft kiss against her forehead. “I have moved heaven and earth for you, sent you gifts and built you palaces of the mind, I have done so much for you and you have sent away everything I’ve given you, I’m only human, Lydia, and I can only withstand so much.”

“Stay,” she mumbled.

“Til you’re asleep.” He agreed, wrapping his arms around her. She was amazed at how safe she felt and warm and safe and very drunk, she let herself drift.

—-

Stiles was sat in the kitchen on a padded wing back chair that Boyd had brought in for him, with a cushion behind his back as he sat with Lydia drinking fennel tea. It was not something she cared for but it did seem to be helping with her hangover.

She was incredibly hungover, her stomach was roiling, her very hair hurt and her skin felt like it had been switched with the carp that Danielle was making into a pie on the sideboard. Stiles had no compunction at laughing at her as he made shapes with the pastry that would decorate the pie. He was wearing his blue felt smock and his hands were deft as they twisted and folded the pastry into roses and birds.

“The worst thing,” Lydia said, “was I woke up sharing my bed with an orange. I had laid it out on the pillow like it was Queen Charlotte’s sceptre on it’s velvet pillow. I am never drinking again.”

“Come now, don’t blame the drink,” Stiles said. “It was at worst a willing participant, that is like blaming Danielle’s exquisite cooking for you not being hungry. The first time I got that drunk I woke up with a fruit in the bed my husband spent weeks judging me. He has very judgy eyebrows.”

Danielle made a noise of agreement, “his eyebrows can judge like god.”

Stiles made a sort of grunt and put his hand to his stomach, “I think I need more fennel tea, I swear this week it’s been inhale through my mouth and exhale through my ass. I’m going to have to start growing more of it in the herbarium if I’m expected to share.”

Lydia might not have liked the taste but she was certain that the tea was the only thing holding in her breakfast, light as it was, a Sally Lunn bun toasted and slathered in butter of which she ate half. Previously she had only had the buns, which were a light sweet bread that had the consistency of cake, in Bath where they were well known but she shouldn’t have been surprised that in place like Maunlilie they might be available. The last time she had had them she and Lys had been stuck in bed the whole rest of the evening from eating them fresh from the oven in the store although everyone told them to wait and they had been sick with bloating. She had had the same problem every time she had taken bread from Millie, their cook, as a child, but these had been left to cool and then toasted. Whatever nausea she had she knew was from the _pastis_ not the bun.

“I saw you, yesterday,” she surprised herself by saying it, “in the potting shed.”

For a moment Stiles furrowed his brows in thought and then made an oh shape of realisation with his mouth. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He said finally, and lifted the pot of tea to offer to Danielle that they might have more hot water. She used the pump to fill the kettle which she hung over the fire. “I should have locked the door.”

“I thought you should know.” Lydia said, “you’ve been so kind to me, I’ll keep your secret.”

“What secret?” Stiles asked, “that I fuck in my potting shed, half of Wales knows that, most know to knock.”

“I saw him, your alpha, in London.” Lydia said, “I saw him a lot, I think he thought he was invisible, but I saw him, we laughed about him, we called him my dark alpha because of the way he stared.”

Stiles smiled to himself, it was a soft, fond gesture. “He thinks himself subtle, but it’s more like a brick falling into a pond. I asked him,” he continued, “to keep an eye on you. To make sure you came to no harm, I didn’t have a season but I heard the horror stories. I grew up with the horror stories, about omegas lured into dark corners and compromised into marriage. Omega and beta girls attacked on the streets. Peter assured us you’d be fine, but you hear the stories so I asked him, to watch. It doesn’t surprise me at all you saw him, what would have surprised me was him asking you to dance.”

“Why? you thought he might try to court me?” Lydia asked, Stiles’ paramour seemed quite smitten with him from the moments she had seen in the potting shed.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, “God, no, if the world’s survival counted on Derek doing a quadrille he’d let us all die. He can’t dance, he’s shy and covers it up with bad temper. If he hadn’t been asked he wouldn’t have attended any of the meets over the season.” He laughed to himself, “I’d be less surprised if he had shouted at you, threatened you and thrown you over his shoulder to bring you here. He really doesn’t like people.”

“He likes you well enough.”

Stiles laughed and then made a mild noise of surprise, his hand resting on his abdomen, to better guide the gas, Lydia guessed to herself. “No wonder Peter is head over heels for you, Lydia, you’re so funny.”

“I propositioned him last night?” Lydia said.

“Derek? he didn’t say.”

“No, Peter.”

Stiles’ face made a moue of acknowledgement, before he took one of the slices of carrot that littered the table from Danielle’s pie and popped it into his mouth, chewing for a few seconds before he asked, “what did he say?”

“That I was drunk.” Lydia replied.

Stiles nodded, “you were.” He agreed. “Liam says you compromised his virtue.”

“I asked him to help me with my stays.” Lydia protested, “it was nothing more than that. I don’t have a lady’s maid unless you count Heather. I needed help.”

“He says,” and he said this in a conspiratorial tone, “that you grabbed his head and pressed it into your bosoms when he tried to find the tie which was at the back, he says, you laughed at him for not reaching and sort of shoved him in there so he had an extra few inches of reach.”

“Oh God,” Lydia said, she could remember that now. “he’ll never look at me again. I like Liam, he’s so much nicer than Matt.” She was blushing, well she thought she might be blushing, however she felt so awful from the hangover she could be mistaken. “And Peter will kill him and there will be seven cairns in the woods.”

“Why would Peter bury him there?” Danielle asked, laying the pastry into the tin for her pie, “those are the dog’s graves.”

“What?” Lydia asked, perhaps she was still mostly drunk because she continued without thinking. “I thought that was where he had buried his previous six wives.”

Stiles burst out laughing, “Lyds,” he said reaching out and patting her hand, “You’re not the seventh bride, and even if you were Peter hasn’t murdered six girls, and you would have outlived it anyway, the brides died within a year, you’ve been married for twelve.”

“Then the women, the ones in the portraits in the west hall. Jennifer said they were the Ladies Hale.”

Stiles stood up and offered her his hand, “I think you need to meet the Ladies Hale,” he said, “Peter’s two sisters, Talia and Thisbe, Talia’s omega bride, Marianne, her two daughters Laura and Cora, and the omega bride of one of her sons, Eleanor.” Lydia struggled to her feet, she felt like she weighed as much as the Tor and full of shame. “I think you need to know where the stupid rumour of the seventh bride comes from, but I can assure you, Lyds, it was never you.”


	12. Chapter 12

"I need to walk," Stiles said as he stood up, his hand on his stomach and a grunting noise, "I wish my body would make up it's mind, my back is breaking but I sit for another moment I think my feet will fall off."

"Do you need a cane?" Danielle asked, "I can fetch one."

"No, I do not need a cane." Stiles was horrified at the very suggestion. "I'll walk it off and there will be carp pie when I get back. If he appears please tell Boyd or Himself that Lydia and I are going to the Moorish Kiosk."

Danielle nodded, "you might need a shawl."

Stiles raised his eyebrow. "I'm not incompetent," he said, then looked down at his smock where two large wet stains were spreading. "Goddammit," he said and tugged the smock up over his head, his shirt catching on what was obviously a pregnancy corset, with the lacing open to support the small swell of his belly, and the padding around the breasts he was beginning to have was soaked, "I'm leaking."

"I was under the impression your husband liked it." Danielle said offering him a cloth to sop up the worst of the mess.

"He does, doesn't meana that I do." Stiles snarked.

"Stiles?" Lydia asked, "are you pregnant?" She was surprised for she had not even considered such an option.

"No, I'm just carrying five pounds of extra weight in my uterus." He answered, "of course I'm pregnant, look at me, I'm the size of a cow, my back hurts, i have to pee constantly, if I'm not peeing I'm farting, you watched me eat," he was indignant that she had not noticed, "I had fruit bread with a fried egg, wiltshire loaf cheese, ginger chutney and fresh strawberries all in one mouthful, and I hated myself for doing it."

"My brother ate weird things." Lydia shrugged off, "I thought it was just a male thing, I didn't give it much credence."

"I'm the size of a house!" Stiles protested, "look at me." Apart from the swell of his stomach, which was not large, certainly not as large as some women that Lydia had seen where it looked as if they were containing a bird cage up under their skirts, and covered entirely by his smock there was no outside show that he was pregnant at all, and Lydia said so. "Believe me," Stiles protested, "when I stand sideways there is no telling me from Maunlilie itself. I have had to make a pillow just for my belly, I wonder if I am not going to give birth to a baby oliphaunt but Baba tells me it's normal."

"I didn't even notice," Lydia said, "you're not that huge."

"The first thing Himself said on seeing me was oh my god, you've gotten so big. An alpha leaves for four months and his first words are not that I missed you, or I love you, but instead, oh my god, you've gotten so big. I," Stiles lip wobbled and that was all the warning given before he started to cry. "And this keeps happening." He said waving his hands at his face. "I keep weeping like a beta woman. I cried for an hour because I had no more candy in the house, and I had none because I had eaten them all, and I couldn't stop crying and Boyd didn't know what to do, and Caitlyn, my maid, she had to hold me whilst I sobbed and I couldn't stop." He was aghast, "I was disgusted with myself but I couldn't stop. Although I knew he was returning I actually wrote Himself a letter because I missed him so severely. Do not get with child, Lydia, the experience is horrid. The only thing I have enjoyed is how comfortable my felt smock is and now I'm getting," he was starting to well up again, "too fat for it."

Danielle seemed better equipped to deal with Stiles minor breakdown, Lydia was happy to call it that, she had had more than one herself since she had left London, she wiped her hands on her apron and went to a large stone cloche, lifting it to reveal a selection of cheeses. Using a knife she cut off a large slab of what appeared to be Red Leicester andpressed it into Stiles' hand, and a handkerchief in the other. He wiped his face, and then his chest with the handkerchief and took a bite of the cheese. "I hate myself right now." He added.

"It'll pass," Danielle said, "that's the thing about babies, they come out eventually."

"Baba says maybe another four weeks." He sniffed into the handkerchief, "I'm going to go see if I can find a dry shirt, I'll have left one here at some point. If I need to I'll ask Peter, is Liam about?"

Lydia just put her head down on the table to wait, as it hurt and felt much more heavy than usual, as if someone had, in her hair, stowed a weight or a sack of flour, and set another across her shoulders, as well as stitched weights into the hems of her skirt. The knowledge that Stiles was with child had not quite sunk in, simply because it had to travel through the hangover to get there. Danielle had returned to her work with the pastry before she poured more hot water into Lydia's tea, and the steam which was slightly aniseed made Lydia's stomach settle a little.

When Jennifer entered the kitchen it was likely she did not see Lydia, tucked away as she was in the corner furthest from the door. "Why are you making carp pie? It was not on the menu that I gave you." Jennifer said, her tone was snide. She was wearing a dark green dress that struck Lydia as inappropriate but she could not have said exactly why.

"Because the duke has returned and it's his favourite." Danielle answered, "and I was told that he would be calling upon his uncle this evening and thus I should make his favourite dish."

"And who told you this?"

"The Duke's household." Danielle answered, her tone was crisp as she turned, wiping her hands on her apron and leaning against the counter. "Is there a problem, Jennifer?"

"Lady Amabel does not care for carp," Jennifer said, leaning back and playing with her hair, "and it's so hard to keep her happy."

"That is why she is having a supper of mutton and mint with herbed spring potatoes." Danielle answered, "which was on the menu you laid out for this evening. Everyone else will be having carp."

"But it tastes so muddy," Jennifer whined, everything in her demeanour was one of sweetness so Danielle would simply give in to please her, "I suppose that it makes sense considering who he married but I find carp to be hideously over rated, I suppose people eat it more because of what it is than any taste it might have." Lydia actually raised her head to hear the comment, she was aware that sometimes servants said things about the house that were not to be repeated. "I never did understand that decision."

"Which is good." Danielle answered sharply, "as it had nothing to do with you."

"Lord Peter will not like you talking to me so." Jennifer looked the picture of hurt and Lydia raised an eyebrow although the effort was almost painful.

"Do you think I care if you spend your nights with him?" Danielle replied tersely, "I do not work for Lord Peter, I work for the Duke, and I was hired by Lady Laura." Something in what Jennifer said did not ring true to Lydia because Peter had come to her in the night, and why would he bother to woo Lydia, which he was clearly doing, if he was going to Jennifer. Lydia remembered that he had called her beautifully and intelligent and it was not simply that she was his wife because if that were the case he would simply have bedded her and left it at that. It was not that she was an omega and Jennifer was a beta. It was certainly something to discuss with Peter. Perhaps the reason for Jennifer's acrimony was that Peter had left her bed for Lydia's. "And I am making carp pie for his grace, not for you, and if it is so undesirable you do not have to eat it. There is plenty of cold mutton."

Danielle clearly had no intention of backing down and Lydia liked it about her.

"Cold mutton sounds wonderful," Stiles said coming in. He had changed and was wearing a fresh shirt and a vest that was pleated around the sides in a way that was designed to showcase his belly. It was the sort of vest that meant even Lydia would have suspected that he was pregnant instead of the shapeless smocks he had been wearing. It was made of vertically striped silk jacquard and was an ivory colour embroidered with red and blue zinnias and vines. It was the sort of clothes nobility wore instead of the shapeless felt things he wore. It even looked like he had pulled a comb through his hair. "Is there some in the cool box, Danielle?"

"Certainly," Danielle said moving to the stone box that sat in the coldest part of the kitchen, it was lined in wood, and from it she pulled some cooked mutton wrapped in fabric.

"Will there be anything else, your grace?" She asked, slicing into the roast.

"Not at all," Stiles said sitting back down, she took the slices of meat which she had placed on a small pewter plate, "but Himself is certainly looking forward to your carp pie, apparently the staff in London has not even come close. The very last thing that I wished to talk to him about now that he's returned was how subpar Mrs Coley's cooking was in comparison and how he had lain awake at night dreaming of your carp pie." He ran his hand over the swell of his stomach very deliberately as he looked at Jennifer, making sure she saw the bump and how proud he was of it.

"I have a secret blend of herbs and spices."

Stiles laughed, but his eyes were fixed on Jennifer and hard like gold beads. "That would work better if I was not the one who grew them," he said with a laugh, "and how is my dear aunt, Jennifer?"

"She is well, your grace." She grated the words out.

"Good, now Lydia, my dear," Stiles said turning to her, bringing the room's attention to Lydia, and Jennifer seemed to pale when she saw her before she raised her head with a slightly cruel smile. "Shall we check out the Moorish Kiosk and leave Danielle to her pie."

"Certainly, your grace," Lydia said standing up. "I am most intrigued to see it.

"I would be too," Stiles said, "if my husband had gone to such effort to please me, why it cost nearly three hundred pounds to build and furnish. I do hope you like it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is some grossness in this chapter, it's work safe, just gross

The Moorish Kiosk was terribly misnamed as when Lydia approached the folly it became clear that it was far too large to be a simple kiosk and the style was Byzantine, not Moorish, even to her untutored eye. It was a cylindrical brick building with a red tiled roof, but rather than being perfectly round, like the Oxford Camera, it was instead made of flat surfaces each at a slight angle, certainly more than ten but less than thirty. It had high narrow windows, each of which was set with coloured glass and hidden chimneys as she looked at it’s exterior.

  
Stiles, from the pocket of his coat, pulled a heavy brass key. “Peter built this for you,” he said and then turned, “well, he didn’t do it personally, he paid for it to be built. Your mother said you were interested in the sciences and she was worried you’d set fire to the curtains.”

  
“She never told me that she wrote to him,” Lydia answered, her stomach was burbling uncomfortably and she was mostly sure that it was just the hangover so she ignored it.

  
“I’m getting the impression that your parents didn’t tell you much of anything,” Stiles said under his breath.

“I’m learning that too.” Lydia said as she walked through the door and then fell silent because the room assailed her with it’s beauty. It was, like the outside, basically cylindrical but had been designed as if it were the lost laboratory of an ancient alchemist studying under the Byzantine moon. The roof, which outside had been tiled, was arched and vaulted with paintings set inside of the twelve figures of the zodiac, which she recognised only from their symbols, around a central oculus of faintly golden glass that tinted the entire room. An outer cloister was separated from the inner chamber by a wall of arches, above which paintings of what might have been saints, Lydia did not recognise the figures immediately, and between them the windows that she had seen outside.

The entire effect of the architecture was one of wonder.

The inner chamber was not empty of furniture though, a heavy wooden table stood in the centre of the room, directly under the oculus, and there was both a large brass distillery and alembic, sat over braziers which were unlit. There were book cases, some stuffed full and others almost empty, and devices for the measuring of distances and other geometries.

In all her life she had not dreamed for such a room as this.

There were as well certain simple luxuries, braziers that could be moved and not just those for the still and alembic, a large fireplace with a few hangers, and a trivet for boiling water, as well as a few tin canisters perched on the mantel with cups. There was a trough and pump that stood over a drain for the washing of the glassware that stood in an enclosed hutch, with glass doors.

“It’s beautiful.” She murmured, wandering over to touch the spines of the books. Ignoring the pounding of her head and the quivering of her belly to just read some of the titles. There were blankets and coats hung from hooks on the outer cloister to guard her against the chill, and with the windows so high there was no room for distraction.

“Most of the books came from the house library.” Stiles said, “I have a key because I like to read, but it was put together for you.” He sat down on the leather covered chair that was clearly designed to be the one used most. There were, beside the fireplace another pair of cloth covered arm chairs, but the fire was unlit, and the May weather unseasonably warm, meaning the building had a slight, but pleasant chill to the air. “I come by and light the fire, stop damp getting in and whine about how I don’t have an alembic of my own no matter how much I ask my husband to get me one.”

“You have an allowance, don’t you?” Lydia said turning. “Why not buy one for yourself?”

“And miss the fun of the argument? Lyds, it’s like you don’t know me.” His smile was impish, rubbing his hand over the swell of his belly. “Not only is bickering good for the blood, making up is worth the change. You must tell me when you and Peter become intimate because I have all the virtues of my husband’s knot to extol and no one to extol them with.”

Lydia blushed to the roots of her hair, or at least she assumed she did. She felt genuinely unwell. “Shall I tell your husband at supper that you are desperate for his knot.”

“Oh he knows,” Stiles said with a leer. “Or at least he certainly should by now. There is no shame in enjoying such frolics with my husband, nothing that feels so heavenly could be against the will of God, and if we preach of the virtues of those other things that are godly at length why shouldn’t I wax loquacious about the virtues of his knot.”

“Wax loquacious?” Lydia asked. “Are you practising your ability to speak in public, perhaps running for parliament yourself?” She was enjoying the conversation despite herself, not because the topic was uncomfortable, or at least should have been, but instead because she felt quite wretched.

“Parliament, what a bore? I’m a herbalist, Lydia, a pellar, I have no interest in politics, I just happen to be a very accomplished bride of a fine society gentleman.” His grin was knife sharp. “One that has a fine knot.”

Her laughter was interrupted by a small burp which to her dismay tasted of vomit. “I am sorry, Stiles, but I feel vile,” she leaned back into the chair, “would you mind most awfully if we returned to the house. If I am to finally meet this fantastic knot bearing husband of yours I think that I need to lie down for a few hours, let this nausea pass.”

“I think I spent the entire fourth month of my pregnancy trying to sleep off the feeling of nausea. I’m quite certain I only climbed from my bed to visit the privy.” He said, “so I quite feel your pain. We can certainly go back to the house. And whilst you’re lying down I’ll see if I can find out what happened to your key to this place.” As they left Stiles locked the door behind him. “A lot of the books came from Mortlake.” Lydia wanted to revel in that knowledge, he had not just given her a library. He had given her the library of Dr Dee. The books would of course be out of date, nearly two hundred years old, but belonging the primary English alchemist in history, one who knew all the European ones. One of the fathers of modern chemistry and one who appreciated math and herbalism and many other scientists. “and well, unattended things wander, even outside London, a stout lock is certainly worth the investment.”

He prattled on as they walked, talking about the most famous member of the Hale family, the omega William who had built Maunlilie Tor as it was now, who had been a friend of Dr Dee so when he had left for the imperial court at Prague he had been asked to watch over the library, but had gotten there to find some of the instruments, those made of precious metals had already been stolen, so he had taken the books into his own care.

William had been an omega that had served three queens, Catherine Parr, the last queen consort of Henry Tudor, Mary Tudor, his daughter the one with the bloody sobriquet, and then Elizabeth the omega queen. He had, despite being scarred about the face as a young man married well several times, resulting in his own great wealth and through it all he kept his own name, so that his alpha children were Hales, so great was his power at court.

He was the omega portrait over the table in the formal dining hall, a handsome and fey youth with black curls and kaleidoscopic eyes, but three angry red lines running down his left cheek. He had worn no powder to conceal his disfigurement, instead had worn the marks proudly.

As Stiles chattered on Lydia learned that he had been scarred by Lady Johanna Belvoir over a family scandal. It seemed that she had been an Argent and the great feud between the families had seen Johanna lunge herself, according to the story, at the omega in front of Queen Catherine before she flung herself from the window and her certain death. “She’s the one who cursed the Hales.”

Lydia said very little, content that she was keeping her stomach to herself. “She the sister of the Black Abbot,” Stiles continued, “and he was responsible for it all. Even for Jenny o’ the woods, but that’s a different story.” She pushed open the door to her chamber glad at last she was there because she was certain that it was only will that was holding her roiling guts in.

The room had been trashed.

In the short time since she had left it someone had swept through the room like a storm. Her gowns had been swept from the wardrobe and chest and either flung about, some few lay in the fire place, or torn to shreds. Her novels were destroyed, the pages ripped from their bindings and scattered like cherry blossoms across the floor.

Scrawled on the wall, in what appeared to be human effluent was the word “whore” and it appeared someone, not content with slashing the counterpane and mattress so that the down erupted from it, had relieved themselves in the bed.

Worse still, under the broken mirror, was a wire and ceramic crown that had clearly been trampled underfoot, and recognizing that it was valuable it had been displayed.

Lydia managed to stumble to the basin on the floor and lifted it just long enough to noisily heave her guts into it.

-

Baba was patient with Lydia as she was sick, stood next to the commode as Lydia’s guts abandoned her, stroking her back as she was sick. She had tied Lydia’s hair back, gathering it in a lace snood, so it would not get in the way and encouraged her to just let it out. There was a glass of cold water with ginger oil to sip, and parsley to chew in the short periods of restfulness.

To counter the headache Baba had found a blindfold, although not one as well made as the one that Peter had given her, that had been destroyed with the rest of her things in her room, and scented it heavily with lavender oil to cover the smell of the sick room and ease the pounding of her temples.

As soon as Stiles saw the devastation of her room he had guided her to another room screaming for Heather and Liam to fetch Baba. He was more worried about Lydia’s sickness than the state of the room, although Heather had looked at it and muttered animals.

Lydia had been moved to the moe elaborate part of the house, where there was a flushing toilet, even up the stairs, and a large and beautiful bedroom with stars painted on the ceiling. There was a bath with faucets where the lady who had this room would be able to draw her own bath.

The room was soft and cool in shades of duck egg blue and white, with beech furniture and a triptych of full length mirrors, but mostly Lydia had just seen the painted commode and a slop bucket into which she was sick.

Baba turned out to be a god send, because although she was a grown woman Lydia wanted her mother, because she was sick and she had memories of her mother offering her succour. Baba said nothing when Lydia wept into her breast as her body was wracked with spasms, both from above and below. She barked out orders to others but to Lydia she was kindness herself, and when Baba put her into the fine lady’s bed she knew no one would question it because it was what Baba wanted. So she just nestled into the pillows, sweetly cold against her face, and let exaustion pull her into sleep. Her last thought was that Stiles would be disappointed in her that she could not meet his husband.

-

When she awoke there was someone reading to her, poetry, Milton she guessed, in a sure voice. “Should you not be at supper?”

“When my wife is in ill health?” Peter asked, “but at the best of times I would rather gouge out my eyes with my sister’s finest silver apostle spoons. Danielle has invited half the local nobility who are here for the summer months and between you and me, Desdemona Greenberg is an almighty bore.” Lydia struggled out a laugh. “Stiles gets more amusement from watching me duck her than he does with her as a dinner guest.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” she said, “I hurt.”

“Might I help you sit?” he asked. She made a noise of assent and he helped her up against the pillows. She had, during one of her brief periods of wakefulness, as her stomach woke her with its roiling, been washed down with a wet cloth and placed in a fresh chemise. “Do you know what happened, love?”

“I drank too much _pastis_. I am now suffering from my excess.” She answered calmly, “is there water? My mouth is parched.”

He pressed a cup into her hand and helped her bring it to her mouth so there was no mess without removing the blindfold. “No,” he said, “yesterday Baba gave you a tonic for your blood, water boiled with iron and some herbs, it appears the bottle was switched for one of a particular noxious mix of flaxseed oil, linseed oil, castor oil and epsom salts that Finstock gives to the horses. My dear, you were poisoned, possibly by the person who destroyed your room. Do you have suspicions who it is?”

In that moment she remembered the devastation, the ruined gowns, the ones she had for London, and the broken circlet. “My crown.” she murmured, “they had to destroy my crown.” It had been one of the few things that had given her comfort, the gift from the charming _roi de soliel_ who had commanded her attention at that last ball of her season, the charming man who had been so kind and so wicked at the same time. And now it was destroyed. “I am almost certain that it was your dear aunt.” Her hand went to her arm and the healing scar there. “She spends the nights wailing like a banshee and of all the inhabitants of this house only she has called me a whore.”

“Aunt Amabel?” Peter asked. “Lydia, it cannot be her. She is bound to her bed, she cannot even get into a bath chair without aid. She is crippled.”

“Who else would care?” she asked, “why do you care? Is it because they damaged something that belonged to you? Wouldn’t it be easier for you if they succeeded and I was gone?”

“Lydia,” he said putting his hand on her cheek and raising her face. “I have waited for you to be old enough for years, after the fire it was only the promise of you that kept my wits. I worked on my histories and imagined what it would be when you finally returned my letters. And the longer you did not the more despondent I became until I was drowning in my melancholia. I am not ready for you to see my face but these past weeks, these hours I have spent with you, they are the happiest I have been for a long time.”

“You are not a good man, Peter Hale.” She answered, “and I do not know who to believe. I am told that you are silent in your melancholia but you talk as if you cannot stop. I am told that you are a vain peacock but you will not let me look upon you. I am told that you murdered six brides before me, and that I am your only bride. I am told that you spend your nights with me and your mornings with Jennifer. What am I to believe, sir?”

“Why would I lay hands on Jennifer?” he asked, as if that was the problem that they were discussing. “I find her simpering to be the worst behaviour women can do, I have no use for a woman with no mind of her own. I would be bored long before bedplay became an option. I tell you now, Lydia, I have never laid hands upon my aunt’s nurse.”

He stood up, she could hear him walking around. “Jennifer, what an absurd notion, besides the cap she set was aimed at my nephew, not me.” He paused for a few moments. “Tell me, Lydia, why I was not alerted when you arrived at the house, why you told the staff to keep your presence from me.”

“I did no such thing,” she answered, “I was shown to that room which has been my own and I know believe that they mistook for a companion for your aunt.”

He was quiet, clearly chewing over the information. “How interesting,” he said, “that all of these malefactions have a simple source. I do believe that was the person who destroyed your things, unaware perhaps that I would have you moved not to another of the servant’s chambers, as I had mistakenly believed that you had chosen. But to the rooms I had created for you. And I heard from Danielle that the whispers I had of you making love to Matt were in fact you giving him a dressing down for looking upon you unclothed, yet another told me that you aimed your bonnet at him. We have an enemy, dear one, and that cannot be borne, not in this house.”

Lydia thought about it for a moment, taking another sip of the mint water that she had been given before she tugged the blindfold from her eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as he realized that Lydia had removed her blindfold Peter’s hands came up to cover half of his face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, throwing back the coverlet and walking over to him, still in her chemise, then pulled his hands away, “you act like the villain in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s books. Were you sequestered away in your madness for fear you would terrorize the countryside like one of her villains?” she felt as weak as a new born kitten but would not tolerate this. So much had happened to her in the short time she had been here and now Peter’s vanity was in her way.

“Am I to be the vapid heroine of one of her novels? forced into marriage with the beast for you have never been beastly to me.” She tugged away his hands to reveal the scars on his face. For a moment she searched for words and found them lacking.

At her worst Lydia had expected his face to be blackened, perhaps with bits of exposed bone. There had been a beggar she had seen as a child whose entire face had been burned and his face was polished smooth by scar tissue, shiny and dark pink, his eyebrows and lips burned away and replaced as if by swollen tissue, so it was like a mask over his face.

Peter’s burns were not so severe, but there were scars. Patches of his face appeared to have melted, like cheese that bubbled upon bubble and squeak, and slipped down but not far. The skin was pale, certainly it lacked the ruddy health of the opposite side, and there were bald patches in his dark hair.

Covering his right eye, and the worst of the burns around it, was a black velvet patch trimmed in lace and ribbon. Strangely it just made the left side of his face, which was completely untouched by scars all the more handsome.

And he was handsome. She realized now he was the beautiful boy who had been in the portrait in her solar, the one in the military coat with the brilliant blue eyes and dark curls. Time had thickened the cheekbones and hardened the plush lines of his mouth but he was still handsome, more virile than the prettiness of his youth, and his eyes were a soft Mediterranean blue, like in paintings of the islands of Venice.

“You got these burns trying to save others,” she said and reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, feeling the rough edge of the scar tissue against her lips, “they are proof that you survived.” She kissed him again, “you don’t need to hide that, not from me.” With careful fingers she tugged away the patch to reveal the ruin of his eye, milky and blind, the skin around it melted to a polished sheen and nerve damage causing the skin that should have hosted the eyebrow to droop. Even so it was nowhere near as bad as Lydia had imagined, her mind had taken her from weeping sores to a bright red like a sunburn.

He seemed surprised by her reaction as if she was performing miracles but there were scars, that was true, but perhaps Baba had been right when she had said that in Peter’s head they were as fierce as they had been when he was first burned. Perhaps he was incapable of seeing what they had become blinded by what they had been when they were new, and how lovely a youth he had been before.

Peter had a certain vulnerability as he wavered between leaning into her hand and pulling away and Lydia wondered in that moment how long it had been since Peter had allowed someone other than Baba, who had treated his burns, to touch him. She knew in that moment, more certainly than she had upon his word, that he was not involved in a tryst with Jennifer.

Her smile was soft as she took his hand, strong and hard in her fingers, and pulled him towards the bed. He was as unmoving as if he was carved from wood, and his breath seemed to rattle at the top of his chest, high and tight. “Come lie with me,” she said, “I am cold, and I would have you read to me.” There was nothing sexual in her offer, she certainly wasn’t feeling capable of it, as weak and drained as if she were a sopped cloth wrung dry and pulled tautly, she wanted to return to the fine bed in this room, but she also understood that her acceptance of him needed to be absolute as it stood, she could not falter or let him turn away, or he would return to hiding from her, or worse, lash out like a cornered dog.

So she pulled him to her bed, and as vulnerable as she was at that moment, he went.

He removed his shoes, breeches, coat, and vest until he stood in just his shirt, but he had seemed more naked when she had removed his eye patch which even now dangled from her fingers.

He was a handsome man, in more than just the face. He had a strong flat chest that she could almost see through his shirt, and finely muscled thighs lightly covered with dark hairs. For a moment she wondered how his calves would feel in her hands, would they feel soft and yielding, like her own, or as hard as wood the way they looked.

She scooted across the bed, doing her best to ignore the dark shadow between his legs, the folds of his shirt preserving her dignity if not his, and she lacked the health to blush, that had barrelled out of her hours before amidst the vomit and other effluence.

His feet were remarkable, she thought, and wondered if she had, at any point in her life, seen the bare feet of a man, and the only example she could think of was the carved feet of the savior upon the cross, narrow and bloodied. At another time she might explore this new wonder, this discovery of how different her body was against his, the soft places that did not yield to him, the sinews and thews, the way the tendons stood like cords in the folds of his knees and had she not felt so wretched she might have registered the wonder with a hunger, but she did not.

All of her life, as an omega, she was seen as a person to be married, an entity that existed only for her ability to appeal to an alpha, and even then her accomplishments were to promote that appeal. As an omega she was less likely to be compromised like a beta girl might because she had value and so was more closely guarded. There was nothing sexual in this because she was more valuable, alphas did not look at her as a potential lover but wife and so, although both Baba and Stiles told her that frolics with her husband were to be enjoyable, calling Peter a cocksman, she could not perceive in herself that slattern that might enjoy such things. What little she knew of congress, without Stiles’ exhortations of the pleasures of his alpha’s knot, and her brief discovery in the potting shed were that it was a thing to be borne to enjoy the delight of children. It was a thing that alphas wanted of omegas and something omegas did because it was expected of them.

Tucked into the crook of her husband’s arm, with layers of muslin between them, as she laid her head upon the soft curve of his shoulder and he lifted again the book he had been reading to her, she wondered if she might be like Stiles, desiring her husband’s knot, or if she would not just endure it for the joy of children. It was something to think on, she decided, comfortable and warm, surrounded by him and his smell, sandalwood and musk, with the hint of sharp juniper from his bath on his skin, the vinegar of old wine on his breath and a smell she wanted to define as warmth under the lemon oil in his hair.

With such heavy thoughts, and how sonorous his voice was she felt it easy to sleep, for the first time since she had come here, without the dogs draped across her, she felt safe. She slept.

\---

 

Breakfast was ginger flavored gelatin and a cup of rum with hot water, lime juice, and sugar, an old fisherman’s sweater was offered, although it was too warm, and so instead Lydia wore one of Peter’s banyans and thick woolen socks. Baba was not eager to see her out of bed for any stretch of time, and although she did not feel well, she certainly felt much less wretched.

She did feel up to arguing that she could sit in the huge knotting chair that was pointed at the fire if she had a blanket over her knees, and someone to bring her tea.

Instead, Baba had brought the layette she was correcting after letting Stiles think that he was making it. Lydia realized now that the set was for his own baby, not one from the village, so Lydia was given the stitching as Baba sat and knit. After a few hours, so nearing lunch, although Lydia suspected more gelatin in her future, although she was starting to crave hot buttered toast, Stiles joined them and if he had been unaware of Lydia correcting his stitching he said nothing as he carefully worked some blackwork upon the cuff of a shirt that he pulled from a basket he had brought with him.

“I was considering,” Stiles offered, “going to Chester, we can go in a day, sort out the staffing in this place. I had no idea it had gotten so sparse, but apparently Heather’s the only housemaid, she can’t be expected to keep up the house, and she’s getting married at the end of the summer. We need a new housekeeper, Danielle needs a few minions to lord over in her kitchen. You need a new wardrobe and it will be much less stressful when Boyd and himself go through the servant's things for your jewelry, both Danielle and Heather allowed it, but the others seem a touch more precious. Liam was more than happy to let them look, so he’s going with me to Chester. There is a wonderful modiste there, oh she’s probably not up to London standards but she’s more than good enough to get you through the summer, someone has to be the face of the big house, I won’t be able to soon enough.” He looked at his belly, “but I am more than ready for that part.”

“Yes, your husband commented that you had a bay of hay placed in your bedchamber, but he does not seem to know why,” Baba said, her row ended she turned the needles in his hand. “He was rather embarrassed in asking me if it was a thing for your frolics he was supposed to initiate and did not know how.”

Stiles brayed out a laugh. “I think we should let him continue to think that. That’s hilarious. I can think of many uses for such a thing but surely he has worked out that it is to help me give birth by giving me a surface I can rest on and ruin without fear.”

“On the whole,” Baba said calmly, “alphas know little about the miracle of birth and the less they know the better, for when they know something they think themselves experts, and that is when things become overly complicated. When I worked at the hospital at Cheapside,” she said, Lydia had not known that - “it was a wonder how many of the doctors wanted the women and omega to lie down to give birth, they seemed to think it would ease things.”

“But Isaac Newton proved gravity if all things fall and you are trying to ease a large object through your birth canal any help is a godsend.” Stiles said as if he was horrified at the very idea, “and the last thing you’d want is to lie with your legs open and your quim on display as a baby squeezes it’s way out with all the effluence of birth and all the other stuff.”

“Alphas have this strange idea it’s simply lying there and pushing and over and done with in time for their wives to be up making them supper, and that is why beta women and omegas will always find an omega midwife, and why I will be delivering any babies you choose to have, Lydia, just as I’ll be delivering that one.”

“I’ve had enough effluence in the past few days that I am more than content to make him wait on an heir,” Lydia said.

“I heard, from a little bird called Heather that Peter spent the night in your bed, you must tell me, how was his knot? I mean I love my husband dearly but Peter is a good looking man, and it’s not human not to wonder, so I have, I’m not interested, just wondering.”

Seeing the option for mischief, because Baba at least knew that nothing had happened between them Lydia offered him a sly smile, “huge.”


	15. Chapter 15

Lydia’s journey to the modistes of Chester was cut short when Stiles, helping her walk Colonel for their journey, the carriage outside, looked down at the puddle that was slowly forming on the path at his feet. “I think my water's just broke.” He said, “maybe we're not going to Chester this week.”

They went back to the kitchen, remaining calm, for Lydia had no idea what to do, and Stiles seemed nonplussed by the revelation, in fact if anything he was slightly annoyed about how Hales were never on time for anything, they were either early or late and perfectly suited to be contrary.

Liam was sent to find Boyd and his lordship, Heather went to find a dropcloth so Stiles could go back in the carriage although he was insistent he was fine and could walk back to the gatehouse, and he was certainly not having his baby in this house when everything was set up in the gatehouse, and Matt was sent on a horse into town to find Baba, although Stiles kept trying to remind them that labour took hours and he was good for a long time yet, certainly long enough for her to finish her shopping.

Danielle, as she fetched a bucket of water to clean her floor, merely commented at least they hadn't had the warning when he was stood on the rug.

After the mania had died down Lydia went out to her laboratory to actually inventory what was there, she cleared out the fireplace and lit a new fire so try and combat the damp as the two larger spaniels, Gunter and Gremlin, sprawled out on an old blanket, making the most of both the pool of sunlight and the nascent fire, as Colonel rooted around in corners until she found an old cricket ball which she happily worried.

A volume labelled the Ars Amatoria that she found tucked into the drawer of the work table amused her for a few hours before she decided, using her watch to check, it was time for lunch. She banked and shielded the fire to let it die out on it's own. She was relatively sure it was too soon for news but there might have been some hope.

“My lady,” Liam said dropping knee as she passed, “might I suggest you dress for luncheon, you have guests.”

Lydia wondered what was wrong with what she was wearing, one of Heather's gowns, quickly basted to ensure a better fit, after all Heather was at least half a head taller than Lydia herself. Then she wondered who it was that could be visiting her, perhaps Desdemona Greenberg who served as a sort of gatekeeper for Llandudno society, such as it was, enquiring after her health after Lydia had missed the dinner with the duke due to ill health.

Liam was, if not terrified of Lydia, certainly apprehensive and since learning of her marriage was entirely deferent, treating her not as just a lady of the peerage but instead a queen. “I shall go as I am, Liam, just one moment to change my shoes.” The ones that she was wearing where covered in mud and grass clipping and she had no intention of letting the staff clean a mess that could be easily solved by simply removing her boots and putting on a pair of leather slippers in their place.

The blue sitting room was not the one that she usually preferred with it's walls of paintings, instead it was a large expansive room with a pianola and several blue velvet couches. She had, she was surprised to note, two guests, sat around a low wooden table.

Allison Argent was sat in a lovely riding habit and facing her in a red superfine coat was Scott McCall. Of all the guests she had considered they had not been among them. “Lydia," Allison said, standing up and crossing the room as if there was no massive breach of protocol here.

Allison had removed her pelisse, but she was still in the process of removing her bonnet, and her hair was prettily curled. It was a lovely lavender colour that brought out the colour of her skin, and she smiled sweetly of lilacs, "I missed you so much." It had only been a few weeks, “when you left London so suddenly everyone was a twitter with the scandal.”

“Allison, Mr McCall, is it not that I am glad to see you but why are you here?”

“Well after you left London we were worried and so we gathered information that your mother had sent you here and we wished to make sure that you were well, then when we receieved your letters we knew that we had to hurry here that we might save you from this marriage that is already making you so unhappy.”

"I’m sorry," Lydia said, “my letters to you have been nothing but complimentary of this house and it’s inhabitants.” It shocked her that anyone might have thought otherwise. Lydia was not the sort that complained about her woes in such a manner, even Stiles was unaware of how unhappy she had been in those first few days, and he was aware of most of the terrible things that happened in the house. She had kept her tears to herself and found in their place a cold calculating anger.

“You look so unwell," McCall said standing but being careful to keep his distance from her so it might not be considered inappropriate.

“I am recovering from an illness.” She said, “this is the first day I have felt well enough to leave my bed, and have nothing but praise for those who have helped me recover. I do believe, sir, that you are suffering under a gross misunderstanding. I have not written to you, and certainly not invited you here, so, might I ask where you recieved such an invitation?”

“We came to find you as soon as we learned that you were to marry a cripple." Allison said, “and the Hales are such an awful family, they have such a terrible hsitory, Sir Peter worst amongst them all.” She sounded so earnest that Lydia was surprised at how wrong she was.

“Lord Peter." Lydia corrected almost absently.

“So when we were blessed to meet the Duchesse in Llandudno and she said she was so regretful that she had pressed for the marriage because you were clearly so unhappy, and it matched what we read in your letters, why we could not stay away. We have come to take you from this place. McCall loves you," Allison continued, “he has agreed to marry you even without a dowry.”

“How kind of him." Lydia said drily.

“If you collect your coat and more sensible shoes we can take you to Gretna now.” McCall said.

Lydia took a moment to consider it before she answered. She wondered if there was a time when she would have agreed, where McCall would have made her the centre of his world and his wife, where he would have doted upon her in those moments which suited him and ignored her in those that didn’t. Over the past days she had compared all of her lovers and found that the expectation she would marry was not reason enough to marry. Peter was distant but kind and honest and he had done many things to please her, even before she had arrived in Maunlilie, or was old enough to have considered the very idea of consummating the marriage. The books and gowns and things she had thought were sent to her by her many suitors had all been sent by him.

"No.” said Lydia.

“I beg your pardon,” Allison said McCall said, “but I thought that you loved me.”

"No," Lydia corrected, "I did not, and if I ever gave you that impression then I must apologise, but I found that more than the expectation that I would marry you because I could picture a future with you was that I could not bear the guilt that you would subject me to if I should disappoint you, I did not realise it at the time but you are quite manipulative, and though I do not doubt that you have such feelings for me that might, given time to grow, have grown into love, you prefered the idea of marrying an omega and with my lack of dowry I was the one without parents who would not oppose the match. So you convinced yourself you loved me, but I now know it was a fiction between us.”

McCall reeled as if she had physically struck him. “You are too unkind, madam to think my feelings are so easily manipulated.”

“Unkind, sir, let me ask you, all of those hours which we spent in conversation, how much about me do you really know. Do I have siblings, for example?”

“Yes," he countered, “you have two sisters, betas both, Lys and Lysette.”

"I have two sisters it is true, and they are both betas, but they are called Lys and Lynette, and I also have a brother, Lysander, of whom I know I have spoken often. And what, sir, of my hopes and dreams.”

“You wished to be married well and have children. Is that not the hope of all omegas?”

“No, sir, it was not." Lydia answered, “I wished to understand and to explore mathematics, and Lord Hale understands that of me and makes no presumption upon me or my time.”

“But he is a cripple." McCall protested.

Allison added, “surely his wealth is not enough to make up for what he has done.”

“So what has he done?" Lydia had worn the mask of clear indifference almost all of her life, she had used it to maintain difference and disdain of the people around her, secure in the knowledge that as an omega she was wanted and being beautiful she would be cherished, and what she did in her own time was no one's business but her own, as long as she managed the house and her husband’s social engagements then what she did in her own time was her own.

But Peter had done everything in his power to make it something she could explore.

“He is a murderer.”

“The six wives?” Lydia asked, “I must admit that I fell for that fiction too, but it is just that, a fiction I know to be false, for he was not free to marry six women and strangle them on their wedding night or however the story has twisted itself.” Stiles had explained that very well, and once Lydia had given herself the opportunity to chew it over she knew it to be true as well.

“He was well known for his duelling in Vienna, he is said to have killed five men.”

“He was in Vienna for the home office, so I doubt that any gossip from there might be true, after all the home office tends to be quite secretive about it's agents.” Lydia answered.

“You can't possibly be considering this, he is a Hale." Allison ground it out like it was the worst insult that she could consider.

“And you are an Argent." Lydia answered calmly, “I understand the two of you have some sort of ongoing quarrel where neither can remember the cause.”

“They accused my aunt of burning down their house or somesuch, she had to go to Scotland to evade the gossip.”

“Is that what they told you?” Peter asked from the door. In the daylight the ruin of his face was more apparent, "I am sorry that I am interrupting but I simply could no longer stand silent, might I join you, love.” He didn't wait for an answer before joining Lydia on the couch. “You see, Miss Argent, I do believe you have been rather misinformed. Your aunt came to us and suggested a marriage to end this feud between our families, and my sister, the Duchess, felt obliged to agree to at least humour her, to make a show of reconciliation. Then one night, a few into her stay, she barricaded the doors, splashed liquor all over the walls and carpets and set it alight.”

“You're lying.”

"In this," Peter said touching his face, "I do not have to lie, your aunt was convicted to hang for the offence such proof was found, she pled the belly and her husband, whom she had married for the purposes of arranging an alibi, surprised her by growing a spine, he was the one who had her locked in bedlam, after she tried to burn down his house. So please excuse me for wanting to keep an eye on you. I would, of course, advise that you investigate this for yourself.”

“My aunt would not do such a thing.” Allison protested.

“And yet she did, and stood there as the fire burned gloating, despite that there were children in the house. What was it your parents accused her of doing, perhaps a dropped lantern in the barn, a match from a pipe not extinguished correctly, but the King believed she should hang for her crimes so I think we should take his word on it, don’t you, and as for the duels in Vienna, they too are a fiction, no more real than the six wives I am said to have strangled on their wedding night, and as you can see, Mr McCall, I am scarred, not crippled. Neither infirm in body or mind.”

Peter looked like he might at any moment explode into violence, and what surprised Lydia was nto that he might act on her behalf, but that she liked it. “Now I have simply one more question to ask before I insist that you leave, you said that you spoke to the Duchesse in town, did you not?”

“Yes," Allison said, “she was most hospitable.”

"It is most curious for my nephew has married a male omega, who is currently in delivery of the next heir, and that is not something you mentioned, even though his grace spent the day here with Lydia.”

“No, it was a woman, she wore a fine velvet dress and introduced herself as the Duchesse,”

“Did she have dark hair and light eyes?” Peter pressed, “for if so my niece has been very remiss in not calling upon us.”

"No," McCall said, “her eyes were dark, and her hair brown, but dark, not black. She was most pleasant, and invited us both to her hotel room to share tea.”

“So," Lydia began, “despite knowing that Maunlilie is barely an hour's ride from Llandudno you did not think it strange that the woman claiming to be the Duke's wife might take lodgings there?”

“She said that she felt uncomfortable there whilst you were being wooed.” Allison said, “the duke was so quiet about his wife that we did not question that she might be shy.”

“One more thing, the letters that you recieved," Peter said in a soft voice, “were not sent by my wife, you were misled, and now I must find out who it was who dared such things, it is a good thing that we are entirely changing the staff, for we do appear to have a malefactor among us. I shall get Liam to bring you back to your carriage, Mr McCall, Miss Argent, I am sure you will understand that if you wish to meet my dear Lydia again that you arrange to do so in town. Miss Greenberg holds lovely parties, and I am sure you will see her there.”

To his credit Peter waited until the carriage had pulled away before commenting on the gall and cheek of it, trying to coerce his wife to Gretna, before he kissed Lydia soundly on the lips, holding her jaw with one hand, for refusing them in such a manner.


	16. Chapter 16

Lydia shared a cold lunch with Peter in the lounge after McCall and Allison had been shown out by Matthew. There were cold cuts, early fruit, cheese and ginger preserve. There was hot sweet coffee, as Peter admitted that he preferred it to tea, tea was something he drank when he had no other choice, but he preferred chocolate in the morning and coffee, thick, black and oily, with his meals. He told her it was a habit he had picked up in Vienna, and it started him talking about the city, and the people there. He had loved it in his own way, he admitted, and found England very dull in comparison.

That had turned the conversation towards his travels and is adventures in Italy, which Lydia admitted that she wished to see. “Shall we go there?” he asked over the rim of his coffee can, “Venice, it is rather drab in the winter, but wonderful in the summer.”

"Oh can we," she asked, she had never been further than Brighton and she said so.

“If you wish, my love, we can go to the Americas to visit Lady Laura, we have nothing to hold us here. I was merely waiting for you, but I do not care much for Wales.”

“Then what is it that you have used to occupy your time?" she asked, she wanted to know him.

"I am a writer, under a pen name, of course, I write silly romances such as the middle classes eat up. Light little fripperies but they do secure me a lot of mail.”

"I would like to see the baby, I do not much care for them, but I like Stiles and I feel he might be offended if I do not,” Lydia said.

Peter laughed, “babies are strange creatures, they are immobile but everything around them becomes strangely sticky. And that is assuming that they do not soil themselves upon you, or just vomit. My sister had several children and although I found them interesting once they were six or so, until then I was worried I would drop them, Derek for example, squirmed greatly, and for some reason both Talia and Marianne were desperately unhappy when I slipped them coffee or sweetmeats. Evie liked gingerbread and I used to work hard to get Mrs Dunbar, Liam’s mother and our cook before the fire, into making it for her.”

“Was Evie the youngest?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, she would have been sixteen this year, she was an elf of a child, just out of chubby babyhood and capable of conversation, I adored her, she was brilliant smart, when the fire," he paused, “I tried to get to her, to save her.”

"I was told you saved Cora.”

“That is the common mistake," Peter said, "I saved Liam, who was wandering the halls, but could not save Henry, do you mind if we change the subject?” Lydia told him that she did not. He then told her about Boyd, his voice seeming almost rusty with disuse, and how he had come to work at Maunlilie after Laura’s beneficence found him in Virginia, in the Americas, where she was known as an abolitionist, but had lost emphasis in her argument for her marriage, which was legal but frowned upon, in the state, to another Alpha. He talked about Cora who had taken a house in Lake Geneva and offered accomodation to passing Englishmen on their grand tours and whose letters were often the fodder for Peter’s “silly little romances" as he called them, yet refused to divulge his pen name for fear that she had read them.

Spending the afternoon with him, coffee being replaced by lavender tea, the cold cuts replaced by soft scones with thick cream and strawberry preserve. She felt pleasantly full when she reached out and took his hand, “earlier," she said, “you kissed me.”

“I did," he admitted putting down his tea, “did you not like it?”

“Yes," she said, “I did very much, but I have been thinking, Peter," and there was such power in being able to say his name, “an omega is raised as a commodity, they are taught to be a bride, but with no instruction in how to be a wife, and until I came here I had neither knowledge or interest in congress.” She pursed her lips in a way that she knew was pretty, “because it was something an omega went through in order to keep their alpha happy, but talking to Stiles and Baba, and even to an extent, Jennifer, I now wonder if it is not something that might be enjoyed.”

“Why Lady Hale," he asked, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“Yes," she answered, “is it working?”

He patted the couch next to him, “why don't you come over and see.” She was a little trepidatious but she did, “you must inform me if I do something that you dislike, this should be pleasurable for both of us, not just me, so if you do not like something you must say, or I shall not know.”

"I do not know what I am doing, perhaps the tea has made me bold,” Lydia said with her eyes down cast.

“Perhaps," Peter said and put the tips of his fingers under her chin and lifted her face up to look at him. “You are lovelier than I could ever have dreamed, are you sure that you want a monster like me?”

“Sir," she said, “Peter, you undervalue yourself greatly, you are scarred, so are a great many men in England with the war, you are not incapable, or rendered unable to even care for yourself, and you have shown me great kindness although I did not know it at first, why do you consider yourself a monster, because of these," she pressed her lips against his scars, “or is Miss Argent correct about the skeletons in your closet?”

"I would much rather you did not speak of her when we are sat so close, or I might get jealous that you wish her attention, not mine.”

Lydia laughed, “Miss Argent and I are like sisters, we have known each other since early childhood, although I wonder now if knowing I was promised to you, not knowing that we were already wed, if her parents might not have hoped to break the engagement by simple association," then she stopped, “No, I am being fanciful, it is like the plot of one of Mrs Ratcliffe’s novels.” She paused again, “that is not your pseudonym is it, for I really enjoy her stories.”

"No, love," he said, holding her face with his fingertips so that her mouth was next to his, “it is not, I am going to kiss you now, is that fine with you?”

“Yes,” she answered, and what surprised her was that it was. There was no hesitation in her as her mouth softened in preparation. She was not entirely clueless as to what happened between an alpha and an omega, she had a copy of the Ars Amatoria after all, and oftentimes at parties couples, not always married, would vanish away for long kisses exchanged whilst their chaperones were at cards. She knew the mechanics of it, if nothing else.

Then Peter kissed her and everything she thought that she had known was gone, or proven wrong. If the simple act of kissing was so sweet, and so sensuous, he slowly dragged his lips over hers, and she could taste the lavender of his tea and the strawberry preserve on his breath, and when his tongue flickered out to touch hers she made a small noise, and he pulled back, “do you wish me to continue?" he asked into her mouth, and she surged forward and kissed him again. He took the opportunity to pull her towards him. His hands felt hot and hard against her back.

He pulled his mouth from hers to kiss along the line of her jaw and down to her neck, it felt wondrous and strange and Lydia made the decision that she quite liked it, with her hands clutching into the arms of his black velvet jacket. His mouth was hot and wet but such words were a small fraction of what she was feeling, and the scrape of his teeth against her skin was transformative. “May I?”he asked, his fingers at the button at the bodice of her gown. With no reason to say no Lydia said yes.

The relief as he undid the top buttons of her bodice and her corset was enough to punch the breath from her. His fingers were almost reverent against the flesh of her breasts and she had not expected that it might feel pleasant. She had, of course, seen those trysting couples, where the male beta and alpha would mash the lady’s breast in his hand like he was kneading dough, often through the corset and she had no idea why such might feel pleasant and assumed it was something women endured because men liked it, but when the pads of Peter’s fingers trailed across her skin it felt lovely, and the heat of his palm when he cupped her breast was better than she expected, even as his mouth came back to hers.

He asked before he took any liberties, begging permission before he tugged up her skirt, his hand, rough and callused against the inside of her leg, catching on her stockings before it felt like a brand on her inner thigh under the layers of fabric of her chemise and petticoat.

She understood now why people in the Ars Amatoria were naked for these things. Her skirts were very much in the way, as was his jacket. There was something quite wicked about doing this in the middle of the day, with the things for tea upon the table in front of them, and she rather liked it. She liked the wickedness of it, how Peter had tugged up her skirts and then he touched her between her legs and she jolted. “Did you not like it?" he asked against her mouth.

"Oh no," she said, "I liked it very much indeed. Now I wish you would continue, or I might have to do so for you.” She pushed her hips forward, further into his hands as her mind went through the medical names for what it was that he touched, and how she arched and made a squeaking noise when his fingertips, slick with her, found her clit. It was almost a laugh as she pushed her hips into his hand.

“You like that, don't you,” he asked into her ear, against her hip she could feel his hips and hardness, straining to reach her despite his pants. “Now come for me, lovely," he said. It surprised her when it happened, for it was at first like the waves broaching the shore and then, like a volcano, it gained in intensity and erupted so that she nearly jolted from his arms with a spray of liquid from her cunt. “There’s my lovely girl," Peter crooned into her ear, as he moved his fingers from her clit to down to the space between her cunt and her clit, where he just kept his fingers, her entire body felt like it was throbbing from there, around his fingers.

He held her through it, making no motion that he might seek anything more than her pleasure as he did so, just murmuring reassurances that she was beautiful between kisses against the side of her neck and ear.

-

Liam came in just as Peter was fastening the buttons on her bodice with his quick, clever fingers. “My Lord, My lady,” he said with a forced stiffness, “his grace, Szerafin, has requested your presence." He was blushing up to the roots of his hair and his ears were so red that they looked fit to burst.

“Both of us?” Peter asked archly.

“Um, no, my lord, just my lady.” He stammered out, “he was most insistent.” And Peter laughed into Lydia’s hair, even as he tucked up a stray tendril behind her ear. “And right now, Caitlyn says, everyone is doing as he wishes.”

“Of course they are," Peter said, placing one final kiss on the tip of her nose, “he’s giving birth, omega are never closer to god or more vengeful than then."


	17. Chapter 17

Herald Janusz Stilinski Hale was born in the late evening amidst a bevy of threats, curses and expletives that might have made a sailor blush. Baba took the baby away meaning Lydia, who had stood stalwart through the last pangs of the birth by giving Stiles a firm tower to lean against, only saw the child's dark hair, and clearly alpha pointed ears, mostly because of how they stood away from his head.

Stiles saw those too. “Oh god," he said, dazzled with pain and exertion, "I've had a goblin baby.”

“No, you haven't," Baba said, “he’s beautiful,” She was holding the baby in a linen cloth as she waited for the placenta to drop before cutting the cord. She had opinions on how long to wait and at least a quarter of an hour was best, but the baby had been swaddled already, hiding his wide pointed ears that stood out at right angles to the side of his head.

“He's got ears like a bat," Stiles wailed, “it's a demon baby.”

Baba rolled her eyes, “he has alpha ears," she corrected softly, “you’ve done so well, _Kochanie_ , I’m so proud of you.”

“Oh god, I gave birth to a demon baby, I shouldn't have kept using the garden, I should have stayed in, oh god,”

“ _Kochanie_ ," Baba said in a soft and patronising voice, “he’s a beautiful healthy boy, and sometimes babies are born with teeth.”

"Oh god, my demon baby has fangs. How am I going to show him to Derek if he's got fangs?”

“He hasn't got fangs, he's got one little tooth that I will pull because when babies are born with teeth they come loose very easily and we don't want him swallowing it, now do we, _kochanie_ ," she addressed this to the child, “because you are Baba's best little boy, aren't you, yes, you are, you’re very handsome even with the tooth and you got your father’s eyebrows didn't you?”

“He’s got bat ears, fangs and Derek's eyebrows. Get Father O’Connell, we need an exorcism.” Stiles was almost frantic.

"No,” Baba said finally showing Stiles the baby but she made no attempt to give it up, “we get this little monster into the bath,”

"Now you’re calling it a monster. Oh god, I've given birth to an It.”

Throughout this exchange Lydia wisely kept her own counsel. When Caitlyn came in as Baba went through the process of preparing the child to meet his alpha parent, who had been out riding when Lydia appeared because he had no idea what else to do for fear that he might go mad, Lydia tried to excuse herself but found herself helping Caitlyn deal with an exhausted and distraught Stiles who was convinced that he had given birth to Satan himself, into a bath, a clean nightshirt and then bed on a thickly folded towel in another room, one that was not layered with straw and whatever else Stiles had felt that he needed for the birth.

It was only when he was considered presentable, hair roughly washed and combed, that his husband was allowed entrance.

This was the first time Lydia was actually introduced to her dark alpha as she had called him, and he struck her with all the virility that she had noticed in him before, like Stiles he had bathed, or a least thrown a jug of water over his head to cancel out the stink of horse. “Congratulations," Baba said holding the wrapped bundle, “you have an alpha son.”

"I have a son.” He seemed humbled in the knowledge with his hands strangely at his sides. He was a very handsome man with a clear forehead, the same strong cheekbones as Peter and despite his dark hair and light eyes. They were currently overwhelmed and he had no idea what it was that he was thinking. He seemed torn between taking the child and running away screaming. Lydia wasn't sure if it was the child's appearance that caused that reaction.

"I’m sorry," Stiles muttered, half asleep, “I didn’t mean to have a goblin baby.”

Baba rolled her eyes, “He's beautiful." She corrected. “And he's not a goblin.”

From what she could see of his screwed up face, which was bright red and irate, with dark hairs across the tip of his turned up nose, Lydia wondered how right Stiles was. Perhaps he had given birth to a goblin. “Sir, do you wish to take your son?” she offered Derek the baby. It seemed very small, even dressed and diapered and wrapped in linen against his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed as if worried that he might, by simple virtue of standing, drop the child. “Herald," he said in an awed voice, running his finger tip the length of the child's forehead and nose.

This the baby took as an invitation to cry for the second time, as if it had not taken Baba so long to quieten him the first. Derek, now as distraught as Stiles, managed to turn and slide the baby into Stiles’ arms, even whilst he was distraught and convinced he had given birth to the antichrist.

—-

When Lydia finally returned to Maunlilie she was exhausted, so she grabbed only some buttered bread and cheese for supper, with a cup of cold lavender tea to wash it down. Then she went to bed without bothering to bathe first.

Peter was waiting in her room as she began to unpin her hair, putting the pins in her mouth as she worked. She didn't know why it surprised her. She spat them out into her hand, and then the trinket tray on the dresser. He had a book in his hands and was sat, wearing only pants and shirt on the bed. “Stiles had an alpha boy.” She said, “and is quite convinced he birthed a goblin.”

Peter burst out laughing. It was a thing to see on him.

“Derek was such an ugly baby," Peter said, “he didn't pretty out till about five or so, and puberty was terrible, it's no surprise really.”

"Oh no, the child has ears like a bat, Derek's monobrow and a tooth.” Peter cackled before he composed himself, Lydia undoing the buttons of her dress and letting it fall open, as she reached around to find the ties of her skirt. This was a perfunctory unrobing, nothing of seduction or show about it, and she was surprised how comfortable it already felt. Then she remembered that Peter had been there when she had been ill, bringing her mint and ginger tea and stroking her hair, after he had seen that she had no mysteries left.

She let the skirt drop around her feet in a puddle as she pulled off the bodice, then went the petticoat before she untied her bum roll before unlacing it from her corset, then letting it drop. “I am always amazed at the efforts women go to," Peter said, “I do not know if the dresses are to flatter or hide, your figure is lovely," and Lydia started to blush under the flattery, “I like the softness of your thighs and the plumpness of your breasts.”

“Stop, sir, you shall make me blush further," she said, suddenly feeling the urge to cover herself, one arm across her breasts and the other her sex. "I am not sure I like to be scrutinised so.”

“Whyever not?” Peter asked, “when you are so very beautiful. I love the soft pale cream of your skin, and the blue of your veins, your breasts are topped with the palest pink aureoles that I ache to take into my mouth and suckle upon, and I wish to place my mouth there, between your legs, and bring you to climax upon my tongue, and where the skin is thinnest, where your veins are most prominent I wish to place kisses.”

“But what if I were to fall with child," she said acting the ingenue although she wanted to experience what it was that he offered, but she was not the type to give up so easily, even when the rewards promised so sweetly. “I might have a goblin baby like Stiles did, it might be a terrible curse upon the house.”

“Oh the image of you, swollen with child, those pale breasts heavy with milk, you do tempt me, love, of course the goblin baby will be given to a nurse, and I might keep your milk entirely for myself.” She threw the bumroll at him. Peter laughed as he caught it.

—-

It took three days for the gossip about the baby to circle back from the village to the gatehouse when Desdemona Greenberg arrived, with her entourage of beta women of minor noble houses, to see the baby.

Stiles himself was not feeling up to guests buy Lydia was grandfathered in to play hostess, although the duke himself seemed loathe to relinquish the child, admitting in a low whisper that this was the longest he had gotten to hold him, because between Stiles and Baba it was expected as the alpha parent he would have no interest, when he was quite clearly besotted.

Baba had worked wonder with the child, whose face was still gathered in a perpetual frown, but no longer had the singular eyebrow, and his ears were tucked under one of the frilled bonnets that she had helped Stiles make. “His grace is still indisposed," Lydia said as she took her seat, one of the two maids, Emily she thought, laid out tea for Lydia to serve to her guests. “The birth was taxing, but this is the Ducal Heir." In his arms Derek turned the baby so that the gathered ladies could respectfully ooh and ah. More than one of the beta girls mentioned that Lord Peter was not present.

One girl, Mary Eunice, a pale blonde beta girl who had looked around the gatehouse with something close to disdain as clearly not worthy of either her or the ducal family, “oh Mona," she said in what was meant to be a conspiratorial whisper but was clearly loud enough for everyone to hear, “that's not a goblin baby at all, I expected grey skin or a tail.”

“Get out." Lydia said bluntly, clenching her fists at her side. “All of you, out now!” She stood up, her legs banging against the silver tea tray so the dishes clattered.

“Why I never," the same rude beta said with her hand to her mouth.

“Do not play the victim here,” Lydia said, “you came to gawk at the goblin baby, not to see the ducal child, Herald is a baby and this is his father, you have insulted them both, why you should be dragged out into the street and flogged for this insult.”

“How dare you?" Mary Eunice said, “do you know who my father is?” She was incensed. “Do you think Lord Peter will continue to tarry with you if you make such enemies.” Derek got up and left the room because he seemed to want to put the baby down before he wrought the violence that Lydia seemed to gather from him. “Just because you are an omega and a whore you think yourself better.”

“Where has this rumour that I have come to marry Lord Peter emerged?” she asked regaining her composure. “For it is a terrible misconception, perhaps you are so very rude because you aimed your bonnet at him yourself, but Lord Peter and I ARE married, I came here not as a potential bride but instead as his wife, and as Lady Hale I am horrified at your behaviour, miss, perhaps you are used to your father brushing such actions away by paying for it, and spoiling you, but I shall tell you now that I shall have you struck from the invitation lists of all society, unable to marry even the lowliest footman, you vile creature. Now get out.”

“My father will hear of this.”

“Good, then perhaps he will finally take your behaviour in hand. Including your inability to follow basic instructions like get the hell out of this house." Boyd was at the door, arms crossed and looking very much like he was about to take Mary Eunice and throw her bodily from the house. Mary Eunice stood up, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

"I shall not stay to be so abused.”

“Good, for I have asked you leave several times, I am no longer in the mood for guests, you shall have to entreat the Duchenne to recieve you, for I am not nearly as patient as he.” The other betas made their apologies as they left, the idea that they might lose the ducal favour offending them more than the behaviour of their peer. She was still angry as she drank her tea, sweetened with rose petals, such as preferred by the older women of the ton.

When Baba came in with the baby in her arms, perhaps quarter of an hour later, Lydia had emptied the tea pot and eaten most of the cake fingers and finger sandwiches that had been provided for their guests thinking. She did not often eat her anger, her corset was kept tight enough that if she had done such she would be sick. However as she was stuck wearing Heather's gowns she did not need to wear them to get a good fit and the stiffness of the gown offered her adequate support so she could eat in bad temper.

“Do you wish to stay the night?” She asked, “Derek is currently riding. He does that when he is angry, the alternative is that he commits murder.”

“She was so rude, I would not expect such of even the French.” Lydia groused.

“Then I suppose I best not tell you that she is waiting outside in her carriage." Baba said, “we must find out who is carrying tales into the village, for beyond the walls of this house my Stiles' overwrought exclamation that his son was a goblin was not heard, although I do not doubt you might have said so to Lord Peter, whose counsel I trust. The question remains as to who overheard it.”

“Someone was pretending to be him in town in regards to a pair of suitors who had intent to whisk me to Gretna.”

“I doubt that Miss Sneyd would have been so forward if he had not thought you simply Peter’s Mistress, she has been sending her father to Maunlilie for years in the hope that he might return the honour and call upon them.” Baba said in her quiet way, “he does not, but I do think she has long since fancied herself Lady Hale.”

Lydia folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath of bad temper. “Well she cannot have him, I am Lady Hale and unless I die he is not free for a grubby little beta who has not the manners in her head because she thinks that her father is important.”

“He owns a silk mill in Derbyshire, but her mother requires the sea air for her health, they came here, I suppose for Peter, and apart from the usual gaggle of rich beta girls she is not welcome in society. She is given invitations to balls and such to make up numbers but still thinks herself popular, she possibly even has convinced herself Peter is waiting for her but I doubt that he knows her name.” Baba clearly had no time for the girl.

“I have no patience for such, she said such things in front of the duke.”

“I doubt she knows that he is the duke," Baba said, “Derek has remained aloof from society, he is shy and has little interest in society, they probably thought he was a servant, but even so.” She bounced the child in her arms, who made a little noise of discontent as he yawned. “Stiles and I are excluded from society be being Romani, they think it makes us unclean, there are rumours that Stiles used his magic to seduce the duke.”

“Bullshit," Lydia was surprised by the vehemence with which the word escaped her.

“But as I said," Baba said, “someone is carrying tales.”

“That is it," Lydia snarled, "I am going back to the big house and I am dragging Jennifer out by her hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got permission from the lovely Spaggel to use her OC Herald for this
> 
> you can read the adventures of Herald the goblin baby here  
> http://swingsetindecember.tumblr.com/post/55341727307/herald-stilinski-hale-master-post
> 
> and i highly recommend you do, the sheriff may not be in this story to see his most precious angel but to give you an idea of the wonderful, ugly baby


	18. Chapter 18

Despite Lydia’s best intentions to the contrary Peter spent the next few days doing his best to distract her from her intent to drag Jennifer out into the courtyard by her hair and drive her out of all of Wales. There were gifts, elaborate meals, a gown with a modiste who came out to the house. There were doctors who came out to investigate Aunt Amabel, as the duke had decided she would be better served in a sanitarium, and what revelations came from that meeting were taken from her by a new novel.

Peter was a fascinating conversationalist and if he wanted to change the subject it was done with such deftness that Lydia did not notice until after they had parted.

Stiles had come to term with the concept of having given birth to the antichrist with the realisation that it was his, and despite misgivings, and worries over things like how Herald never cried unless he was hungry enough to drain both breasts, and never if he was just wet. In fact there was a good worry that he seemed to like lying in his own filth. Which Baba reassured him was not proof that he had had a goblin baby and was just a boy thing.

Baba was also fascinated by the baby, and kept stripping him down to his bonnet and diaper and just letting him kick and wriggle when laid out on the table, him being too young to do much more than soil himself and cry. Lydia thought he looked much like a skinned rabbit. Exposure to the child was not making Lydia any more fond of babies in general, not because he was ugly or a goblin, but just because he seemed rather useless and noisy.

Even the sight of Peter holding the baby did nothing to arouse any sort of maternal instinct in her. In fact the image just made her laugh as both Peter and Herald managed to look horribly uncomfortable. It was not that Peter did not know how to hold a child, it's just that he would much rather, he admitted, hold a barrel of gunpowder with a lit fuse, than any baby.

However when he was pinned down with the baby in his arms he was not able to run away from her questions. “What are we to do about Jennifer?” Lydia asked sweetly, as Peter looked around for anyone to take the child, but there was no one else.

“I have spoken with the magistrate," he admitted finally, “and there is not much we can do to prevent her doing this to others. What she has done is cruel, but none of it was illegal, except possibly her poisoning of you and we cannot prove it was her. The easy option would be to simply fire her, but then we cannot be sure she would not try the same things with another. I have a guest coming, a dear friend of mine from Vienna, you might not care much for him. Not many do, now please, relieve me of this burden as he has just relieved himself on me.”

—-

Colonel John Sheppard was the very antithesis of his namesake. Where the spaniel was hyperactive, excited by everything and given the choice would run around after her tail until she collapsed from exhaustion, the colonel was more like a cat, content to sprawl out in the heat and watch the world go by secure in the knowledge that he was lord of all he surveyed. He was a thin alpha with a shock of dark hair and bright eyes, and a laconic manner with a wry humour that as soon as Lydia had spoken to him she understood why he was Peter’s friend.

Peter was delighted to introduce him, he wore the formal black uniform with the red cuffs and collar and gold work, the same as Peter had worn in his portrait. He was a handsome man with a quiet manner and a humour as dry as Peter’s own. It was strange how immediately Jennifer went from fractious to simpering in the presence of a guest. "It’s quite useless," Peter murmured into Lydia’s ear “he’s very happily married, his bride is quite awful, he has the temperament of an annoyed weasel with a grudge to prove, which Shep finds his most endearing trait, I imagine the two of you will get along well, he likes mathematics as much as you.”

Knowing that, as Sheppard talked to them about his travels, watching Jennifer’s simpering attempts at seduction became much more entertaining. “I do not know what I would do if my Meredith decided to give me children," he said in reaction to the knowledge of Herald, “actually I am not sure what Meredith would do if he decided to give me children.”

“I am sure they would be quite charming, sir,” Jennifer said from the door, “and very handsome.”

“They would be unholy terrors with uncontrollable hair," Peter drawled, “the British army would despair that they might grow to join their ranks like their parents.”

“How did you meet your Meredith?” Lydia asked.

“A shared love of ballistics." Sheppard answered.

“Shep is not given to listing his accomplishments, he was interested in blowing things up, and Meredith’s interest was making bigger booms with less effort.” Peter said, “it is Meredith’s recipe that the army prefers to use for its cannon.”

"Not quite, Hale," Shepherd said, “Meredith is more interested in the mathematics of it, he considers chemistry more of a soft science given to dabblers. There are many names in science that quake in fear of his letters, and several newspapers that lack the courage not to publish his letters. He is not even as polite as scathing to those in natural philosophy.”

“That is because your darling Meredith might be a kitten when you scratch his chin, but to the rest of the world he's a fractious hell cat with a vendetta and a penchant for the sciences.”

Rather than take offence at what Peter said about the charming Meredith, Sheppard laughed. “Ah, but he’s my Hellcat.” Jennifer made a sort of discontented noise as she was indicated to pour more of the wine. It was clear whatever cap she was setting to Colonel Sheppard he had no intention of paying it any heed.

This was the first time that Lydia had drank alcohol since she had drunk to excess with _pastis,_ normally wine was something she had with food, perhaps half a glass of a red with red meat, or watered white with dessert. She would have champagne and lemonade at balls or social engagement, but Sheppard had brought with him a liqueur made sweet with lemons and honey water that was apparently just the thing in Venice. Like lemonade it went down easy, soothing the burn of the quite strong alcohol and it did not take as much as she thought to get her foxed, and the more foxed she got the more interesting tales Sheppard had to tell her about Peter.

Peter, not one to be undone, started talking about the terrible circumstances of Lydia arriving early at Maunlilie by nearly two weeks and being mistaken for a fallen woman because of the machinations of a cruel servant.

Sheppard, now as drunk as both Peter and Lydia, said that it was not a patch on the story he had told about Dorka, the midwife who had come from Warsaw and crossed a war torn Spain with a baby on her back to work in the slums of London despite having been the midwife to the king of Poland’s mistress. The story struck Lydia as being mildly familiar until Peter said, “but I had to change it, no one wants to read about the war, it's all muck and mud, they want to read about _La Terreur_.”

“The _Dear Evangeline_ books,” Lydia exulted recognising the story. “You wrote the _Dear Evangeline_ stories?!" She tried to get up to kiss him, for she very much enjoyed those books but her legs were unsure under her, and she crashed into the table and fell back onto her couch with a laugh. "I love the _Dear Evangeline_ books, the way that she outmaneuvered the French Baron who wished to force her into marriage, do I know _Dear Evangeline_ , really?”

“Dorka, she’ll be about somewhere," Sheppard yawned. “But he’ll make you famous, little girl, soon enough people will be buying the story of the waif of Maunlilie Tor, although he’ll change the names so it will probably be more like Thorncrush Grange.” He scratched at his head, “all of Peter’s books are hackwork of stories he’s heard from other people, probably why they’re so much fun.”

“And how would you end this story?" Lydia asked, “now that the waif has met her charming but crippled husband, and the machinations of the evil housekeeper has been revealed.”

“Jennifer’s not a housekeeper," Peter scoffed, “she’s Aunt Amabel's nurse, and a piss poor job of it she’s done. Oh there will be some terrible confrontation, I imagine the housekeeper will threaten the waif with a knife, and then the crippled husband will have to save her.”

“Then she is very much in for a surprise," Lydia said, "I have two sisters, I am not incapable of my own defence.”

“But you are not a trained soldier.” It was possible Peter did not intend to be so patronising.

“You know Croft," Sheppard started.

“Crazy Crofty, who decided to go one on one with a wolf pack in Bavaria?” From his tone it appeared that Peter had no idea why Sheppard was mentioning it.

“And won." Sheppard added. “He had two sisters. Ugliest girls you ever did see, but when you asked him why he got so good at fighting he’d drain his mug and look at you like he’d come into the gates of Hell and kicked them down screaming, I have two sisters as his explanation.”

“Ugly?” Peter asked, “so of course Jim-boy tried to seduce them both, at the same time.”

“Of course," Sheppard admitted, “and got his face slapped soundly, on both cheeks, by both girls.”

“Jim-boy Kirk was the most charming of the entire company, he believed himself irresistible to women, however they had almost no interest in him, even though he had rank and title, but he didn’t discriminate between girls others would turn their nose up, pretty, ugly, hideous, he simply did not care. He would turn on the charm until the lady in question told him to stop.” Peter was explaining these things to Lydia who had no idea who these men were.

“He was always a gentleman when they refused him, and never pressed his suit.” Sheppard laughed.

“But by the time they had lost their temper enough to refuse him outright it was usually with the flat of her hand.” Peter qualified.

“He is to be married this Christmas,” Sheppard told him, “Miss Marcus.”

“How much did he pay her father? Last I heard he was dallying with that divorced omega, McCoy.”

“The cantankerous Scot, best field surgeon in the British army," Sheppard said, “refused to marry him, no matter how many times Jim asked. There are more than a few who think that this engagement with Miss Marcus is to encourage McCoy back into marriage, we all know the two of them have been dallying for the whole of their service. It is a wonder that in all those years that McCoy has not had to go to the country to avoid scandal.” Lydia knew the euphemism as being one for pregnancy.

“He’s a surgeon and trained midwife, although there is little that he cannot fix,” Peter said, “without him and Baba I would have died after the fire.”

“And if that isn't a coalition to give any alpha chills in his balls.” Sheppard admitted, “add in my Meredith and they’d take over the world," he leered at Lydia, “but would you serve in their army or lead, my lady?”

“My Lydia," Peter said in a rather possessive tone, “why she is as much a creature of science as they, although even though Stiles has become a parent I think that Dorka is very much training him as her heir in taking over the world.”

“If her story," Lydia said, “is half as salacious as that of the _Dear Evangeline_ ," she knew her gestures were large because the lemon drink was clearly stronger than it tasted and she was quite drunk.

“Oh Dorka's story is far more salacious than that drivel Hale published. We should fetch her, Hale, send your boy to fetch her and that nephew of yours, the one that doesn't speak just manages entire conversations with his eyebrows.”

“As do you, Shep,” Peter laughed, “when you’re not on a belly full of this lemon shit.”

“You must tell me," Lydia said, “I wish to know, Peter," she was wheedling, “I adore the tales of _Dear Evangeline_.”

“Then you must ask her yourself, it is not my place to tell the story of her life," he said, “without her permission, if we do not treat our omega like the queens that they are then how shall we expect them to not poison us or smother us in our sleep.”

“You give me ideas, husband.” Lydia crossed her arms over her chest in a pout, but it was interrupted by a yawn. “I am sorry, dear gentleman, but I fear I must retire if my husband will not regale me of the interesting tales behind my favourite novel, or my guest will not inform me of the mathematics which interest his husband.” And with that she leaned over to place a sloppy kiss on Peter’s cheek, she was too drunk to manage anything else, before she left the room. All of her life she had been told that omega gossipped for lack of anything to do, but it seemed the adage was quite wrong, omega discussed the things that were happening in their daily life and made their plans - alphas gossipped.


	19. Chapter 19

Lydia awoke in the middle of the night to a sound and the knowledge that she had sat down on her bed to remove her slippers and fallen asleep in her corset. She struggled to sit up, the corset, whilst excellent for the posture, was not conducive to the flailing necessary to attain a sitting position. “I’m sorry," Peter said from the fireplace where he had been trying to coax a steadier blaze from the coals with the poker, and it had been his cursing which woke her. “It was not my intention to wake you.”

“‘M good." She said, but her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Finally sitting, she poured herself a cup of water from the jug beside the bed, and it was among the nicest things she had ever drank in her life, she was so dry. So she drank a second.

She took the opportunity to remove the last of the pins from her hair and let it fall loose down her back, although normally she would braid it for bed she was a little too sleepy and the last of her drunk to care. She would deal with that in the morning.

"I am not sure that I am comfortable, sir, with you watching me sleep.” She said as she debated a third cup of the water, which would empty the jug. She was sure Heather would bring fresh in the morning.

“I was in fact debating whether I would prefer to undress you and place you into bed correctly in your chemise, or just taking shears to your lacing and leaving you as you were. You are young enough that a night twisted into such a position would not bother you much.” He answered, turning around. "I decided only to check upon you, and restart the fire. I had not thought that you would wake.”

“Nevertheless," she said stretching her arms above her head with an almighty yawn, “you did come into my bedchamber without my permission, and watch me in my bed.”

“Is that not my prerogative as your husband?” he was teasing her, and it appeared to amuse him much more than the evening of chatter had done so. “Although it is not my intent to bully you into such things as you are unhappy with. After all, Lydia, you are my wife, not my chattel.”

“And you, sir, are my husband, not my maid, it is not upon you to arrange for my comfort.” She undid the top buttons of her gown, and the top one of her corset, just enough to make her slightly more comfortable.

“Who is to arrange for your comfort if not me?” he moved towards her like a cat stalking its prey, with a lope that she found more attractive than she admitted. He had removed his coat and his vest hung open, he had removed his stockings and the sight of his bare feet surprised her. Again she liked it. "I am, after all, your husband.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, sir?” She could play the ingenue very well, a perfect form of artlessness that had made her a contender for the diamond of the _ton_ _._

“Do you want me to?” his smile was wolfish in the poor light of the bedroom, catching on his remaining eye.

Lydia thought of that when he had touched her, how good his mouth felt upon her neck and shoulders, how wondrous his fingers had felt between her thighs. “I do not know, Peter, do I want you to?”

He sank to his knees at her feet, on the deep woven rug that was there for her naked toes, and put his hands upon her ankles. Through her stockings his hands felt hot. “do you want me to?” she asked.

“There is nothing I find more delightful than the fripperies of female dress. The restrictions and laxities,” he skimmed his palms up her calves, “and underneath the softnesses, the delicacies. Here, the silk of your stockings and there," she jolted just a little when his fingers touched her thighs. “Women truss up and tighten away their delicacies like a gift to be unwrapped.” He had pushed up her skirts so they sat upon her thighs. “Such a beautifully wrapped gift," he said, and placed a soft kiss upon her thigh, before a soft bite, he used his hand to part her thighs, and with a hungry groan he placed a single kiss on each thigh, and then using one hand to open the folds of her sex he kissed her there.

The noise Lydia made surprised her as her entire body fell back, and she lost her mind, to his lips, his tongue and his teeth. He worked her softly, bringing her to the brink and then pulling back to kiss at her thighs, and skim his fingers up her calves. She didn't know what to do with her hands, only that she did not want him to stop, and when she came it was with a scream and her hands fisted in the coverlet. He twined three fingers together and slipped them inside her, easing the throbbing as it started.

He stood up, wiping his mouth with the fingers of his free hand, “did you like that, my dear?” He asked, knowing full well that she had.

When her wits had restored themselves she lifted her arms as if she was a child begging to be held. Without removing his fingers from inside her he kissed her, sweeping his tongue, still with her taste in his mouth, and it did not disgust her as much as she thought that it might have, but instead the knowledge that he had done this, that he had awakened such things in her. These were not the simple obligations of the wife, but instead the hungers of something older and more primal.

It made her feel powerful. She thought about the disdain women of society who were known to be free with their favours could be. She thought of their private salons and the army of alphas willing to do them favours and pay for their amusements. Those women and omega, for at least one of them was male were not invited to those parties that were the heart of society, they were not at dances or dinners, so instead they held salons and invited those other outcasts, whilst wives and mothers called them names out of earshot and snubbed them in the street.

Yet the power of such pleasure, of bringing a man like Lord Peter Hale voluntarily to his knees only for the purpose of her amusement, it was heady, like a strong liquor lingering on her tongue. For a moment she considered the concept of all those alphas desperate to please her and decided she had no interest in it. Not whilst Peter was so very amusing.

"Peter," she said as he slipped his fingers from her, “why do you not mount me?” She was not sure there were other words for it, in the titters she had heard from other maidens when they gathered in little clusters to discuss marriage prospects that was the word they had used with disdain for the act of an alpha breeding his bride.

“Do you wish me to?” He asked, his breath was hot against her chin, as his clever fingers started to undo the rest of the buttons of her gown. “Then tell me, Lydia, what it is you wish me to do. Tell me which part of me you wish?”

The word caught in her mouth and he saw it. “How can I give you what you want when you cannot even say the word? I can give you my mouth, my fingers, I feel you have no problem asking for those, do you?” She wanted him to kiss her again so she reached up and did so. He was kneeling now, across her waist, but holding himself up above her. In the poor light she could not make out his features, but she was aware of other things, the heat of his body, the strength of his arms caging her in with his hands on either side of her head, even the corded power in his thighs through the layers of skirts.

“Say it and I shall give you all that you ask for.” His voice was rough with unkempt desire. When he spotted her hesitation he seemed to soften in his intent, “if you are not ready then I will wait.”

“I want it." She snarled, surprised at her own vehemence and he smirked.

“Then say it, any of the names will do, say it and I shall let you do as you please with it, perhaps take it in hand, or in your pretty mouth, or shall I slide inside you and rock us together until I knot, with my hips pressed tight against your lovely ass and my hands on your from behind as I kiss at your neck and shoulders the way you so enjoy.” She undid the last of her buttons so that the soft layers of her chemise were on display between her breasts as they fell back into the folds of her armpits under their own weight. Her nipples felt tight and hard.

“Cock." She said, “I want you to press your cock so far up inside me that it feels like your knot is in my throat.” Lydia might have been educated in society to be the demure bride that was every alpha's dream, but she had also spent weeks in the the company of Stiles who was open about how much he enjoyed his husband’s cock, and had found a copy of the sexually explicit Ars Amatoria. The word was uncomfortable but she could say it.

Peter grinned and sucked her lower lip into his mouth, pulling away so the suction was elongated into a singular experience, “there's my girl," he said proudly.

Instead of merely unbuttoning his pants and going for it, Peter pulled back standing beside the bed. "Might I undress you, Lady Hale?” he asked.

She climbed out of the bed and stood in front of him, he stood nearly a head taller than her, and in that moment he made her feel safe. He slowly pushed the dress from her shoulders and let it fall around her ankles, then the ties of her bumroll, removing it completely with careful movements. Then the laces of her petticoat so that she stood there in her corset, chemise and stockings. She felt vulnerable as he turned her, undoing the lacing with careful fingers and removing her corset entirely. “For now, that is enough, I always found the promise of nudity so much more erotic than bare skin, there will be time for that later.”

“Now you,” she told him.

At that he balked just a little, but she could see him shuttering himself. He started with his pants, undoing both flies and pushing his pants down to reveal his thighs, corded and strong but the left was scarred, much worse than his face and neck, here and there marked with divots. The skin was not just melted but in places burned shiny, it continued up his hips and over his chest when he pulled out his shirt. She noted these things almost academically, then having noted it pulled him towards her. “I thought you were going to knot me, husband," she said. She noted that his cock was soft between his thighs, his discomfort at his nudity having taken his desire from him.

“You are not disgusted?” he was surprised by that. “I am monstrous.”

“I have seen worse," she said, running her hands over the line of his chest, appreciating the heat of his skin, “did I ever take the time to tell you about my tutor in Mathematics? He was an astronomer who had nearly died in Russia of frostbite, lost both ears and his nose to it, and two of the fingers from one hand, and then he was in a ship battle on his way back, still invalid and he took terrible oil burns. I was perhaps eight years old when he came home to our village, he and his wife would come to church and all the children would stare. I remember mother chastising my sisters about it, but I did not care. He fascinated me, it was something of a morbid curiosity I must admit so I gathered wild flowers to bring to him and apologise. I think I wished to look at him without my mother's hand over my eyes.

“His wife let me in, she was a mouse of a thing, he had married her before he had gone to Russia and spent years with him in the sanitorium in Buxton until he was well enough to return. He was sat there, wearing loose clothes because fabrics rubbed his scars and hurt him, at his desk, blind, although I did not know it at the time, with his wife, as they worked through his mathematical theorems.” She smiled to herself, “he taught me that the universe was made of numbers and I went every day to listen to his proofs, they were beautiful.”

“I cannot give you that." Peter said, his arms wrapped around her now, pressed up against her so she could not see his scars, what he considered his monstrousness.

“You jest, Peter, you gave me a laboratory.” She said it in awe, “knowing I was fascinated by the natural sciences you did not consider it a childish folly, the whim of a silly girl, you built me a folly for the sole purpose of encouraging it.”

"Is that why you lower yourself to lie with a monster?” His voice sounded small, she got the impression he still didn't get the point she was trying to make.

“I have never lowered myself," she said, “I do not love you, that is true, and I am not obligated simply because you are my husband, but I do like you, Peter, and I desire you. How can I make that clear? Shall I go to my knees and take you in my mouth as you did for me? Perhaps I could do this?” Her hand felt small against the girth of his cock. This at least was unscarred, he was circumcised, and judging by the burns on his hip it had been removed to save him further pain, but it felt hot and dry in her palm as she twisted her wrist. He made a noise like he had been stabbed, the air forced from his lungs, and he seemed to deflate against her, all the strength going from his frame and she pulled him, hand around his cock, to her bed.


	20. Chapter 20

For the days following Shepherd's arrival Peter kept to his bed, refusing to talk to anyone and barely eating the food that Danielle brought him under a cloche, with jugs of lemonade and elderberry wine. Danielle told him it wasn't that unusual, and Stiles was quick to agree. “He’s a victim of a terrible melancholia and that's not quickly solved, Lydia, he has good days and bad days, and sometimes it catches up with him when he does too much, all those girls in town who fancy themselves his Lady they don't consider this.”

“So what do I do?” Lydia asked. Despite Maunlilie being a huge house with many sitting rooms it was the kitchen that Stiles preferred, possibly for access to tea, and so it was there that they spent most of their time.

“You make sure he has food, that his chamber pot is empty and when he feels better that you’re there to support him. You are honest with him and let him live his life," Stiles answered. “He’s much better than he used to be.” He hefted Herald in his arms so the baby’s head was against his shoulder. “Really, this is the first time he’s been like this since I got pregnant, I think that might be the longest stretch yet.”

“He’s just worn himself out," Danielle said, sitting at the table. “Between you and Shep," Shep was yet to rise for the day, “and the baby he’s tried so hard he’s worn himself out, give him a few days.”

“He is asleep in my bed," Lydia said, “should I bed down in his room.”

“Do the sheets need changing?” Danielle asked, with one quirked up eyebrow. "If not just go to bed regardless.” She was drinking hot lemon tea, bread proving on the counter behind her. She was often busy with all the little things that the house needed to keep running. Jennifer might be the one mistaken for a housekeeper but it was Danielle that actually ran the house. “If he rolls over unto you use your elbows, he's not going to want anything but knowing you’re there if he does.”

Stiles laughed, bouncing the baby on his shoulder, “if he's not up to getting up and sitting in a chair he is not going to be up to knotting you.”

“You're just complaining because you’re not up to being knotted," Danielle said, reaching out to take the baby.

"I hurt," he hissed at her. “Someone’s head was a lot bigger than someone else’s knot."

“Well if you will lie down with dogs, you’ll get fleas." Danielle was clearly teasing him and Lydia was glad to see it. She wondered for a moment how a beta like Jennifer would cope with a knot, for Peter fully aroused was about the circumference of a lemon but knotted was closer to an orange or a small grapefruit, as an omega Lydia’s body was designed for the stretch but a beta was not. Alphas were preferable because they offered a lot of advantages in society but Lydia ached, pleasantly, after taking Peter’s knot, would a beta be like Stiles, hobbling and sitting on a sack of wheat-grain that Danielle was keeping in the ice house. She also wondered briefly if Greenberg and her coterie of high born betas had similar conversations or had the presence of Baba and her midwife’s opinion of coitus had altered things.

She pictured briefly Jennifer’s face skewed up in disgust as if she had sucked upon a lemon. The only reason she was still in the house was that with Lady Amabel she needed a nurse so until they were ready to take her into the Sanitorium in Buxton where she could get the care she needed, which was more about the travel than her stay there, Jennifer was secure of her place here.

Then another thought popped into her head like a soap bubble landing and exploding upon a surface. “Why does everyone call Jennifer Jenny o’ the woods?”

Danielle looked at Stiles for him to explain and he looked back, then sighed, getting up to put his sleeping baby down in the straw basket he had for him in place of a bassinet, before getting himself more hot water from the trivet for his tea. "It's a local thing," he said, “an old ghost story, most villages have them, and Jenny o’ the woods is ours.”

“She’s a bad omen," Danielle said, “you see her and bad things happen, sickness or death in the house, a failed crop, that sort of thing.”

The comparison was obvious, Jenny was the shortened form of Jennifer after all, and no one really seemed to like Jennifer. “Are you going to tell me his ghost story?” Lydia said, “after all, we have nothing else to do, the men of the house are sleeping.” With Herald in his basket, Peter refusing to leave his bed and no sign of Sheppard despite it being nearly noon that was true. Danielle fetched a loaf and uncovered the butter from its dish so that they might eat as they talked.

“It’s an odd story, because some of it that we know to be true so there's no reason for it not to be, but it is like something from Mrs. Radcliffe's novels," Stiles started, “and it's about the Argent feud, so it might not make complete sense to you because you didn't grow up with it the way that Peter or I did.” He sat back down on his cooled pillow before reaching for the knife, Danielle slapped his hand away and cut him a slice of the bread to butter and cover with honey the way that he preferred.

“This land has been Hale land since before William the Conqueror came from Normandy, and although the Hales swore to him he set up the Argents as their neighbours and the Argents maintained that the Hales were disloyal, because they were Jarls and not Barons, because the Hale land had a better harbour which the Argents wanted, and the Hales gave as good as they got over the better farming land to the south. But really they argued over any excuse they could, whatever started the feud we may never know but it got worse. Eventually even the king knew of their feud and not wanting two of his barons to destroy each other he split them up, like children. He moved the Argents to Northumberland and gave them a much larger piece of land when that baron died and the Argents reacted by giving up a large swathe of their land to the church just before they officially got the news because it was to go to the Hales.

The Argents built an Abbey on the land and it was always controlled by the Argent family and everyone knew it, but with the church involved the Hales couldn't seize the land or get it from the King and so they had a stalemate.” He took a bite of his bread and chewed and swallowed before he continued. “The Argent bishops had a bad reputation but it was mostly explained away as the old feud, that proximity slandered them and because the church was responsible for the Abbey even if the rumors were true no one could do anything because the church ignored any complaints.

“The Abbot at the time had the worst reputation that he lured servant beta girls to the abbey and murdered them but there was no proof, everyone knew the story but the Church said it was just peasant silliness, probably because the Argents paid them so much, but the story was all over the county to the point that no beta girl would work there, and they were invited from all over the country to do tasks the monks considered below them, laundry and the like.” He broke off a piece of the bread.

"Jenny was a girl from the village, sometimes the story says she worked in Maunlilie which was a lot smaller then, a small tower left over from the Medieval period, but Jenny was never a Hale, or from one of the prominent families, she was a servant girl who happened to be very beautiful, and the story says she caught the eye of one of the Hale boys and one of the farm boys and it was the talk of the town that they were going to fight over her. She decided to marry the farm boy, called Daff, and the date as set, then a few days before the wedding they both disappeared, as did the Hale boy, Stephen I think he was, I'd have to check with Peter or Himself, they’d know, but I can't remember off hand, anyway, the three of them went missing and rumours spread around the town, and when the Hale boy came back everyone just believed that Jenny and her boy had eloped and run off together.”

Lydia served herself some bread, refusing the honey and instead taking the elderberry preserve she prefered. “Then the boy came back without her, he had gone to make money for their marriage, as Jenny had turned down a life of riches to be with him, but there was no sign of Jenny. Then one day an old farmer's wife saw her in the woods. She chased after her but when she got there Jenny was gone. Then a second woman saw her. Soon everyone saw her in one way or another. The village was small, less than twenty people lived there but the Hale boy followed her. He went to where she had been with Daff and waited until she appeared somewhere else and slowly they followed her through the woods to an old cave on the Abbot's land and they found the body of many women, some of which were years old, and Jenny was only recognisable by a moonstone cross that Stephen Hale had given her." Lydia's hand went to her neck and the cross she wore.

“Earl Hale wrote to the church in the hope that they would finally act, but they refused. The king at the time was Henry and he wanted to divorce his wife but the church would not let him for Spanish reasons, I don't want to get into that, but he decided to overthrow the church and seize the lands so they came with the soldiers and it was an abattoir, please excuse the pun, but they had been murdering girls, prostitutes and the like, girls looking for work and others, inviting them to the abbey and killing them, the story says hundreds, history says two or three. The Hales demanded that the Abbot be stripped of his title and prosecuted and until that the king hadn't listened, but it's hard to argue with lots of bodies, so they condemned him to death, but he couldn't be found.”

Stiles stopped for a moment, “now the story goes that Lord Hale the elder had a vision of Jenny who led him to the Abbot’s sister Joanna Belvoir who had given him refuge. Lord Belvoir was in London so might not have known and there was a huge trial, they couldn't keep it from the people because of the scandal, there were plays, and Lord Belvoir was sentenced to life in prison on the Isle of Wight. Now I have been to where he was imprisoned and it was a palace but he was kept from his wife, and she blamed the Hales, and when her husband died, of excess.”

“He drank himself to death." Danielle qualified.

“Lady Belvoir, who had been Joanna Argent, went after the Hales but was only able to get to William Hale who was the queen’s companion, meaning he sang whilst she worked. He was the one who improved Maunlilie and raised the title from Earl to Duke. But she went at him with her nails, cursed the family that seven of their brides would die, and killed herself."

Lydia nodded. “So the seven brides?” she asked, "I ask because everyone seems convinced I’m the seventh bride.”

“The Seventh bride was called Eleanor." Danielle said, “and she died in the fire.”

“She had curly hair," Stiles said, “and a laugh like she knew something you didn’t and it wasn't to be shared in polite company, she was tall for an omega, everyone said it, taller even than Will who she was married to, and she had freckles, but they never made it to her portraits. I very much wanted to be her," he sounded wistful. “I already knew I was going to belong to Himself, but she was so beautiful and poised and not afraid to get down in the mud with Cora and Henry and Liam, Evie and I, although Liam was much younger, Evie didn't like to get dirty, but Ell, she was into everything, she used to wear pants just because it made it easier to play. I don't think people realise just how much we lost in the fire.” Lydia didn't have words for that, there were Peter’s scars but there was also this ongoing grief for people she didn’t know; for Eleanor and even Jenny who had died hundreds of years before.

“Jenny appears when things are going bad," Danielle said finishing her piece of bread and honey, “in the woods, she lures children out towards the place where she was found, she’s not a good ghost, and well, our Jennifer’s not a good person.” Lydia was glad the topic was changed from the fire, otherwise, she felt she might need to go upstairs, strip off her gown and get into bed with Peter and let the world go on without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sanitorium and a sanitarium may seem very similar but are very different, a sanitorium is a spa or posh hospital, but a sanitorium is a mental hospital - because English is a great language that exists to mess with people


	21. Chapter 21

It took three days before Peter felt steady enough to leave his bed, and when he did he was quiet and reserved. Colonel Sheppard had agreed to travel with Lydia, with a suitable chaperone in Heather, to take Lydia to Chester that she might order a new wardrobe. The alpha had no interest in clothes but needed to see a solicitor about things which was his purpose in England. He was not a man given to conversation but instead had a tendency to deliver dry asides that were devastating in polite company whilst never being overtly offensive. In Chester, Lydia was recognized as Lady Hale and people treated her with a sort of deference, her opinion asked upon matters of fashion and it was both wonderful and boring.

When she had left London she had found these things fascinating and the entirety of her world was what people wore or served for supper. In Chester, lacking the social capital of London, where she was well respected simply by virtue of her marriage, she was bored without Stiles witty conversation about nothing, Peter’s erudite destruction of those around her.

As she danced, something she had always loved to do, she remembered the man she had danced with at that last masque, her sun king who had been so charming and cruel, and who had danced like a dream.

She was sipping wine and watching Sheppard dance, unwillingly, with a matron who was groping his arm and laughing in an exaggerated manner, her manner was one of seductress but the finished effect was rather ludicrous and Sheppard was both flattered and enjoying the complete silliness of it. Peter had said that Sheppard had some sort of effect on female betas that they threw themselves at him, and he just thought it was hilarious. Some of the tales that they had told, of their travels through Europe for the home office, often had Jim-Boy Kirk swooping in to save Sheppard from the more amorous ones who were not so keen to take no for an answer, he would then with his considerable charm offend them in such a way that he was slapped and the problem was solved.

There was no one to rescue him now and Lydia was unsure if he might verbally remove the lady, or continue to dance with her. She debated it for a moment but he seemed to be having a wonderful time. There was a large spread of food, delicate French pastries, and bright oranges, although it was not London they clearly had spared no expense. Lydia was chewing on one of the pastries, a crisp chewy thing with a buttercream center when the new entry caught her attention. Miss Sneyd was not the sort of person one quickly forgot as she had been the one to insult baby Herald in front of Derek and was, as such, cut from the society in Llandudno.

She looked across at Lydia when she came in, on the arm of a man Lydia knew as Sir Theodore Raeken, and smiled.

Theodore Raeken had been one of Lydia's suitors, so she knew him well. He was an impoverished Lord with estates but no real blunt to speak of, having inherited the scandal of his father’s suicide when the money ran out. He was an anomaly in London society, titled well enough to be a good prospect but without the wealth to appeal, and with the scandal no one was quite sure if they should cut him in the street or invite him, knowing a good marriage with a wealthy beta girl with no brothers, or at least a fine dowry, would restore his fortune.

Miss Sneyd was certainly capable of that, and it was likely that his own nature, which was acerbic, would restore itself after the wedding. Lydia did not think that anyone would culture that awful spoiled nature of self importance given the opportunity to curtail it. Or she could be left in the country whilst he socialised, or better yet, sent to the continent. She wondered how easily Miss Sneyd would be welcomed here in Chester if word of how she had insulted the Duke of Altrincham were to slip out, although knowing Sir Theodore it was possible that it would actually appeal to him about her.

Miss Sneyd was a wearing a dress that struck Lydia as familiar although she could not have said why in a rather insipid pale coral colour that bleached the colour from her skin, and an over large necklace with a large red pendant that might have been a ruby, for it was too light coloured to be a garnet. That she was also wearing a tiara was questionable, as it was not done for a girl to wear one until she was married, even in Chester.

“Lady Hale," Theodore said coming over, “it is so nice to see you here," he said, “when I came to Chester to visit a friend for the summer I had not expected to have many acquaintances here, but you and Miss Sneyd have come to my rescue." He was charming, an inveterate rake and seducer, but he called her Lady Hale, and Miss Sneyd looked as if she had bit down on a slice of lemon in reaction to it. It was only after he had kissed her knuckles that she realised the way he said Sneyd sounded more like snide.

“I was not aware that we shared her acquaintance Sir Theodore.” Lydia said calmly, “or even that she was still accepted in to polite society after her behaviour with the Duke of Altrincham, or perhaps word of what happened there has not yet reached here.” Her smile suggested a certain amusement at the whole affair.

“You are correct, madam," he said, “the news has not yet reached here, but I have heard that she did not attend the presentation of the child to the community, she said that you were determined to slander her in your pretension that you were Lady Hale, and that you were a fallen omega.”

“And what did you tell her?” Lydia turned and lifted a glass of champagne from the table behind her, she was interested in what would be said.

“That I knew better than to get between two beautiful women," he offered her his rake's grin, “well outside of the bedroom.” When he had been courting her he had been polite and charming but had never said anything that might offend her chaperone, but now he seemed to have no such worries. “Will you dance with me, my lady, that I might hear this gossip?”

She placed her empty glass on the table. "I would be delighted, I thought that I would have to steal Colonel Sheppard away if I wished to dance and then the widows of Chester would be heartbroken.”

“Oh, her alpha's not dead," Theo said, “but he doesn't care a fig for society, and he is a terrible curmudgeon, so when she can coax him out he forces her to sit in the corner as he glares at those who come near. She has been hoping to woo an alpha who might at least challenge him that she might gain more freedom.”

“You know a lot about the people here,” Lydia said as they moved into the centre of the floor.

“Come, madam, you know my situation, one of the few things I have to trade is information, so I am of course most fascinated by our mutual friend.” In the bright light of the ballroom she could see his clothes were not quite as new as they appeared, there were frays at the cuffs and a small gravy spot on his waistcoat almost completely hidden by his cravat which was tipped in machine lace in a way that looked like an eccentric decision rather than a spendthrift way to avoid having new clothes. He was perfectly turned out but his clothes were older. Lydia had known that Theo was not seriously courting her, he certainly could not compare to the wealth of most of those who did, and as an omega it was expected she would only select the best candidate for marriage, but she had enjoyed time with him because he was quick and cunning and certainly sounded sincere when he flattered her.

She supposed them both knowing the situation between them he had no reason to lie. “So," he said as he moved her along with the music, “will you tell me this scandal about our mutual acquaintance?”

“You were not so forward in our courtship, sir." She answered. “But I am curious why you accept my marriage when you have spent such time with Miss Sneyd when she is adamant that I was compromised and ran off to be Peter’s concubine.” The music made it easier to talk.

“I saw the announcement in the Times," he told her, “and when I went to question your father as to your new address that I might keep up a correspondence he tried to box my ears, but I was always fond of you, vidama, you were not so twitterpated as so many of your peers, even if you did try to hide that.”

“I believed I was in the market for a husband, and a society bride is meant to have nothing between her ears but fluff and nonsense, she certainly should not be more well read than her suitors.” She pressed her hand to his as they danced.

“Yes, it is better suited to a mistress. It is strange that willful childishness is adorable in a mistress and deplorable in a wife," his eyes found Miss Sneyd across the room, “even when they are very rich.”

“You speak more openly now to me than you did when you sought my hand.”

"Oh the rules between lovers are different when one is married.” This was so blatantly flirtatious that Lydia smiled.

“And yet, sir, I have only been married a month.”

“Then I shall ask you again this time next year.”

Lydia could not help but laugh loud enough that heads turned towards her, especially that of Miss Sneyd.

“That dress of hers looks familiar," Theo said, "But I could not say from where I have seen it.”

"I know, perhaps it is simply that her modiste copied the style of a dress she found pleasing but it seems a little," she gestured with her gloved hand, “as if it was made for a woman who was slightly plumper. I do know that all of the kindness was clearly couched in the richness of her figure.”

“She is so thin she almost looks unwell," Theo agreed sagely.

“She will never be able to hold up her head in Welsh society again." Lydia agreed, “for her temperament is as sour as her face.”

“You must tell me what it was she did, I have heard that you banned her from attending the celebration for the birth of the ducal heir.”

“Then she is also a liar." Lydia answered calmly, “she was not invited but a mutual acquaintance of her and the Duchenne was, a Desdemona Greenberg, perhaps you know her.” Theo shook his head to suggest that he did not. “Of course the Duchenne was still abed, the baby so new, but the Duke was more than proud to display his alpha son. Miss Sneyd took the opportunity to declare the child had no worth as he did not look at all like a goblin.”

"In front of the Duke?” Theo asked.

"Oh yes, and when she was politely asked to leave she refused, calling me a whore.”

"In front of the duke?” Theo repeated as if could not believe such a thing to be true.

“She continued, as she was escorted out, to malign myself, the child, and the Duchenne, explaining the little whore had to have put a spell on his grace that he might soil himself with such foreign leavings.”

“I have heard that the duke is besotted with his bride.” Theo was aghast at the very idea. Dukes were second only to the crown in the hierarchy of the country, one did not speak ill of them for fear that society would spurn you simply for doing such.

“Oh he is, his grace absolutely adores the boy, and I understand why for he has a heart as big as an ocean and loves his Grace as fiercely in turn.” It was easy, Lydia noticed, to steer him to do what she wanted him to do.

“She is very rich." Theo said. He was obviously deciding what to do for he needed the money but lifetime with such a girl would be unbearable.

“Not rich enough I wager." She admitted as the dance came to a close. “She truly is quite unpleasant and fancied herself worthy of a title, she will see little else in you but yours.”

“My title is worth less than the flag it is printed upon, and if I, even with all of England knowing that I need her money, spurn her for such behaviour it will ruin her.”

“Yes," Lydia agreed, “I suppose it will, but that dress does look awfully familiar, I am sure I have one just like it.”


	22. Chapter 22

After her dance with Theo Lydia moved to the gaming tables, and was invited to join the next round of Hazard. She had a small allowance for gambling but the point of the game was not entertainment but, in her case, gossip. She did not know most of these people but she did want to know what they knew about her. They all called her Lady Hale but that did not mean they thought of her as such, but a little champagne and dice and they would tell her everything. She would learn which of these women had bedded her husband, which of them had hoped to snare him, as Miss Sneyd had done, and what the consequences of Miss Sneyd's shame would be.

“Dear Mary-Eunice is dancing again with Sir Theodore.” One of the matrons said.

"I imagine he is going to let her down gently," Lydia told her, “after all the scandal isn't one that he can risk.” She knew she had them hooked now. It was unseemly for a maiden to play at the gaming tables, but a married woman had no such constraints and she was enjoying the freedom. “After all she insulted the Duke of Altrincham to his face about his new born son. I am willing, of course, to overlook that which she said about me, but the Duke is furious.”

“Oh, we had not heard such," one of the matrons said. “Do tell what happened?”

“The Duchenne, Szerafin, was still in his confinement but the Duke was delighted with his child, it's a bonny boy, and the duke could never deny him," the matrons cooed approvingly, “he was a little on the small child, his milk brother came out at a startling fourteen pounds and when he opens his mouth to cry we half expect him to ask for a pie and ale, and Herald is a tiny thing in comparison, but the Duke is delighted, and those of us who know him can recognise that though he is a terse, shy man little given to frivolity. So the Duke decided to present the child himself," that was remarkable, often it was a nurse or a trusted footman who did so. “not just be present, but arranged for it to happen in the parlour that Szerafin might continue his confinement.” The matrons cooed over this saying how adorable it was and how clear it was that he loved his bride and how their own had never been so kind.

"Oh I wish my husband had been so attentive when I was in my confinement, as it was my alpha son was four days old before he left the gaming hells.” Mrs Bennet said in despair, the others made consoling noises that suggested that they had heard this tale of woe before.

“I was present as the matron of the family, for I am a touch older than Szerafin but I am unused to such meetings, I must admit, so it was mostly those of Szerafin's coterie who were invited that day before the formal christening where the entire county could come.” She sipped her champagne and watched the dice roll across the table. “That will be held later in the month, after all a Duke only has his first born once, but Miss Sneyd was invited to the house, I think, or perhaps she was with someone who was invited. I did not arrange the invitations so I do not know, the Duke himself did, he was so delighted with his son.” The matrons all nodded politely. “And she exclaimed to Miss Greenberg, with the Duke there with his new son in his arms, that she was disappointed that the child was not a goblin and just an ordinary baby.”

One of the matrons, Lydia could not remember her name, actually put her hand to her mouth in disgust, before flicking her eyes across to Miss Sneyd. “Perhaps I was a little harsh when I asked her to leave the house but if the Duke had not had young Herald in his arms I do not doubt he would have struck her for saying such a thing, she had not just insulted the baby but his beloved bride, Szerafin, suggesting that because he was born of Roma parents that his child must be a goblin.”

“There were rumours the child was born with a full set of teeth and ears so wide they resembled those of a bat.” Lady Wolstenhulme said, “of course I knew them to be nonsense, but they were amusing, I particularly liked one that said the sun went black and he flew around the room after birth, but there is a world away from hearing such stories and repeating them.” Lydia knew that Lady Wolstenhulme had dined out on those rumours just from the way she said them. “And in front of the Duke himself.”

“The child is perfect, perhaps a touch small, but he did come early.” Lydia said, “I have held him and can say that the only aspect of him that is unusual is he has his alpha parent’s eyebrows, they are rather thick for a newborn.” There was some laughter, most of it polite.

“So, Lady Hale, will you be gracing us with a new child?” Mrs Hargreaves asked.

"I am not married long enough to even know if I might," Lydia said, “but my dear Peter has suggested he would prefer to wait a few years for such things.”

“I am amazed that you speak of him so fondly, I have heard that he is very disfigured, and that the marriage was very rushed.” Mrs Hargreaves gathered up the dice for her throw.

“Oh, he is," Lydia said, “but he is kind and very careful with such things as his hygiene, a few scars and some shyness are hardly reasons to be cold towards him when there are many husbands much less attentive or kind,and my allowance is more than generous."

“Of course," Lady Wolstenhulme added, “she can always look over his shoulder when they are in bed together.”

“And make sure there are no lights lit." Mrs Hargreaves added. “I personally am sure to burn incense when my husband insists on his rights, he chews raw garlic for his health. I am not sure of how it aids him except that there are no others around him to cause him distemper. Maybe it is why he has not lost his fortune at the gaming hells, for none will sit close enough to him. He chews parsley before he comes to me, but although that clears up his breath it does nothing for the garlic that he sweats.”

“Yes," Lady Wolstenhulme added, “Mr Hargreaves smells like nothing more than a Frenchie, it is an improvement upon my own husband, he smells of cheap perfume and liquor. I had thought that he was sharing his attentions with a mistress but it turned out he just favours a rose oil in his hair and lilac on his skin. He smells like a nosegay, combined with the lavender and cedar I store with the sheets it's like lying with an Arabian _houri_ , perhaps I too should leave the window open, but he will complain of the cold.”

The conversation continued in such a vein, with each of the women coming up with spurious reasons why their husbands were so much worse than the other's in such a way that it invited sympathy but not pity, making their husbands objects of mockery in very mild ways. Lydia just let them.

——

Lydia had, in the week she had already spent in Chester, made sure to contact the agency to hire an entire staff for Maunlilie but also offered the staff of the Chester house the opportunity to work in the big house if they prefered, with the added caveat that the lady’s maid, Tracy, and the butler, Leif, a position in her own permanent staff, answerable only to her explaining that she had desire to travel. Both were competent and that was enough for her.

Tracy brought her her breakfast in the morning, calf livers fried with apples spread upon toasted bread and a jug of thick black coffee, and then helped her dress for the morning, brushing out her hair from the braid she had gone to bed in, and pulling a stiff silk banyan over her night gown for the morning's tasks of sorting her mail.

She was surprised when Leif brought her news that she had a guest, and due to her state of undress she did not send Tracy, who was quiet in the corner with needlework, away. Colonel Sheppard had informed her he would be out for the day and she should not expect him for supper so whoever it was that was calling was doing so for Lydia.

At Lydia’s urging as Beth, the house maid brought in a tray of tea and small fancies, Leif showed in Miss Sneyd. She looked like she had been crying and was attended by her chaperone. Miss Sneyd refused the offer of tea but her chaperone, who seemed angry, took a cup and one of the small ginger biscuits from the tray. Miss Sneyd removed her bonnet and pelisse with her handkerchief in her hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Lydia asked. She was sprawled out across her chaise and all she needed to finish the look of disaffected nobility was Colonel curled across her but she had left the spaniel in Maunlilie.

“You have ruined me, madame." Miss Sneyd started, “You have spread such lies about me that not even the fortune hunters will give me the time of day now, and I do not understand why.”

Lydia restrained the urge to laugh in Miss Sneyd’s face. “I have had every reason," she said placing her tea and saucer upon the table, “yet I have not recounted of you any crimes of which you were not culpable. You have maligned both me and my marriage whilst setting your bonnet at my husband, but for that I have not held you accountable, for I know that someone is spreading lies in Maunlilie, and you are clearly a victim of such malicious slander, but you insulted the Duke in his own home over the birth of his child.”

The chaperone did not seem to know that for she started so severely she nearly dropped her cup.

“But I have never met the Duke," Miss Sneyd protested, “he has not left London since he took the title.”

Lydia raised a single eyebrow. “Nevertheless you were rude about a new born child into whose home you were invited to celebrate the birth. Who did you think it was that was holding the infant whom you were told was the ducal heir?”

“That was Stiles’ baby," Miss Sneyd protested. “He's married to one of the footmen.”

Lydia wanted to press her palm to her face. “Stiles is Duchenne Szerafin Hale, bride of Roderick Hale, Duke of Altrincham, and the Duke was the man who was so proud to show off his new born son.”

The chaperone put her cup down. “This is not what you told me what happened, Mary-Eunice." She said, “you told me that the footman was rude and that they cast you out of their house for no reason.”

“Oh there was reason," Lydia continued, “she called me a whore shipped in from London to satisfy Lord Peter and who had taken advantage of his reclusive nature to pretend to be his wife. She told her friends and all those who came to Llandudno for the summer that I was a fallen omega who had the official role of being companion to Lady Amabel, but I do know someone else started that rumour so I can understand that she believed it to be true, but she was not even polite in how she spread the rumour with cruel delight, whilst she sent tokens to my husband, which he showed me. I had planned to correct her in private, but then she insulted the Duke who has been nothing but kind to me. I drove her from the house for I knew if she remained he would have struck her.”

The chaperone was looking at Miss Sneyd in horror.

“But that’s not how it happened," Miss Sneyd protested.

“Isn't it?” Lydia answered, “Tell me, what reason do I have to lie? I am Lady Hale, I lose nothing from the slander, my future is secured." She spread her hands, “all of this is mine and more. Go to the continent, I am told Venice is lovely in the summer, the faux pas that you committed is not unforgivable but it is the topic of gossip.”

“But you told Theo," Miss Sneyd protested.

“Did you know he courted me?” Lydia said with a smirk, “I nearly married him myself before Lord Peter swept me off my feet with his good humour and wit, why wouldn't I tell him that you are a small minded little shrew with pretensions above her station because her father has spoiled her for marriage. After all, he is my friend.”

Miss Sneyd started to cry again, but this time her chaperone did not move to comfort her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that it took so long, this chapter was like pulling teeth, it did not want to come


	23. Chapter 23

Lydia returned to Maunlilie feeling like a triumphant queen. The single carriage she had taken to Chester was replaced by a train, albeit without the Hale crest and most hired for the journey. Peter had told her to spend his money without question when it came to the house, and that Morell would just take it from the fund that all the Hales used for their houses. She was Lady Hale, he reminded her, and as such that fund was open to her use. Morell had simply accepted the reciepts, placing them on her desk to pay when they met her. She had even given Lydia a list of positions required for the optimal running of the house and asked if there were any that Lydia had in mind from the Chester house, and also gave her a list of who was paid what and how often, and which gifts had been given to who and for what acts. She noticed that Jennifer was paid a lot, but that Matt had earned many gifts but although the note said he served as Peter’s valet he was paid as a lower footman. It was clear no one had checked these details in a long time.

She took the book with her, as mistress of the House, especially with Stiles more interested in his new baby - as anyone would be - she would take over the details of putting things in place for the new Housekeeper, although she got the impression it would take at least a year for everything to be catalogued. She didn’t know, for example, how many of the old staff had taken something that had not been missed as there were too few staff to check the belongings against the previous list of what was present.

She had taken the opportunity, whilst in Chester, to buy gifts for Heather’s wedding. If she had specified that she wished to remain in the service of the House Lydia would have promoted her to the role of personal maid, one she could share with Tracy, for it was not unusual for a Lady such as Lydia to have several of them, although Lydia herself was used to sharing one maid with her sisters. She also picked up chocolates for Peter as a gesture. Such things as liquor the house supplied.

She was actually pleased to return to Maunlilie, which she had not expected. The household was lit and Heather waited at the steps, noting with her eyes the new admissions to the staff. Lief was already removing her trunks from the back of the carriage as the new housekeeper, Mrs Lindsay, whose husband was one of the new gardeners, started to direct the new staff climbing down from the carriage, using the map that Morrell had given her to send them to the kitchens where they could get a light meal and be introduced to the house, in expectation that they would start work the next day, once the lady’s trunks were delivered to her room. Lydia had no interest in that, she had eaten in the carriage and wanted to check on Peter. She had, she was surprised to learn, missed him.

She found him in the library, to which she now had a key, having had extras cut by Morell whilst in Chester. He had most of the shutters drawn and a draped cushion over his shoulders, but there were papers across his desk and he was using his pen, before putting it down and rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose, and doing it again. “I had thought you would be delighted to see me but I think instead you would prefer a camphor rub and your bed.”

He looked up and smiled at her. It crinkled up his eyes and his mouth parted just slightly to show his teeth as his head turned slightly to the right. It made her smile to see it. “I had hoped to complete my chapter, and perhaps a little supper, I had not expected you to return before nightfall, and certainly not so early.”

“The house will be in a terrible furore for the next few days, I expect Mrs Lindsey will eventually be able to make it function as it should, why we won't know what to do with ourselves when she does.” Lydia said, starting to gather up the loose papers that covered the floor. “Miss Sneyd was in Chester, she was trying to woo a known fortune hunter, so of course I informed him of her faux pas, and Colonel Sheppard stayed in Chester, he shall return here in a few days before he decides to move on to St Petersburg with his company and Lady Weir.”

She placed the papers on the desk, “Shall I shall fetch you some coffee," she said and kissed him on the temple, “perhaps some laudanum for that headache."

"I cannot, dearest," he admitted, “I must finish this, then I shall go down to the kitchens, but coffee does sound wonderful, perhaps with something to pick at. I can work with this headache, it is not severe enough to send me to my bed.”

"I can ask Baba for something to ease it.” She said, “I would not have you suffer for no reason.”

"It is a headache, dearest," he said, turning his face to accept her kiss on his mouth this time. He wore shirt and waistcoat with his superfine coat draped over the back of another chair at his desk, “nothing to worry over, I have perhaps spent too long at my desk, but when the story wishes to come there is little I can do to dissuade it.”

"I was thinking of making Matt your valet permanently, is it something that will upset you, husband?” She started to clear up the worst of the mess on the table, lifting the sheets and tapping them on the table to fall into place in a solid pile. She could see that the library would be a good place to work, with many plush armchairs and tables with ink tables, there was plenty of lamps and candlesticks, and a large fireplace with comfortable couches placed before it, although no fire had been built there. The afternoon light was pooling on the carpet from the high Tudor glass, that stood between mullions reaching up to the arched and painted roof. It was clearly part of the older part of the house.

There was an upper gallery with polished brass railings but the entire library was covered in books, and there was polished wood panelling between the packed book cases. In one corner one of the couches had many folded blankets and cushions piled upon it. It looked like it had become a nest for a literate omega and Lydia wondered if it was where Stiles had spent the winter nights before his husband came back from London.

"I hadn’t thought that you would care to give him more power, or more of a voice in my ear for I know you dislike him." He seemed genuinely surprised at that.

“If he is good at his job I cannot see a problem,” she answered calmly, moving in such a way that her loose hair was moved away from her head in a subtle gesture that she knew looked lovely. She had bought new cosmetics and there was a small amount of rouge on her lips because she had wanted to look good for him. It had surprised her, but her time in Chester had reminded her of how shallow society could be. Peter’s honesty with her was hugely refreshing. Theo might have been charming but Peter was honest and that felt wonderful. She knew that if he called her lovely he truly meant it.

He pushed back his chair and opened his arms to embrace her, and she settled down onto his knee, curling into his arms and tucking her nose into the hollow behind his ear where he smelled most like himself. He tried to twist so that she was not touching his scars. She had no patience for that, she did not care that he was marred, she had not known him before it, so why would she care for it.

“You look well for someone who has spent several hours in a carriage.” He said into her hair.

"Of course," she said, "I have a new maid," and she enjoyed his chuffing laugh.

“One would think you would be jealous, all of these young girls brought into the house and such a handsome husband.” His lips found the curve of her neck, and kissed her there.

“Stiles will never sleep again.” Her entire tone was flip and amused, “you are too old, of course, to sway my maid from my service.”

“She has made your hair shine like gold, I wouldn't sway her from your service, I’d just seduce her into mine as well.”

Lydia sighed, “then I would have to pay her double." She said, “and I'd have to check the books, it's a lot of work for no real gain, I mean it is not like I would lament her lying late abed but I slept poorly without you there, so I would be crotchety from you climbing from my bed, and she would lie abed and we could not rely upon her to serve me breakfast when I awaken.”

Peter laughed at what she said. “I am yet to see her, she might not be the sort that I prefer."

Lydia moved his hand so that it was on the edge of her gown against her breast, his fingers carefully moved aside the pendant she wore and popped the top button. "I had thought you were undone by a headache," she teased him, as he tugged her fichu away from her bodice, before his hand parted the fabric to free her breast, cupping it in his palm.

"I told you it was not incapacitating." He said, “and I have a young and lovely bride who has been without my attentions for nearly six days. Besides, I’m told it's good for what ails you.” That was the point that Lydia burst out laughing. She had decided she quite adored Peter, he was playful and could be as cruel as she was. He also clearly adored her which did much to making her think fondly of him.

But she did think of him fondly, and enjoyed time spent in his company, which was more than she had expected of marriage, but life was much easier to a wife than it had been to a prospective bride, her mother's fussing had been replaced with autonomy and no one cared if she shared a tryst with her husband in the library in the middle of the day, if someone had stumbled upon them mid coitus they would simply close the door.

She kicked off her slippers, jacquard things with a wooden heel that showed off her calves beautifully under her skirts and lifted her hems from the obvious mud, even though she had been travelling by carriage, letting them clatter to the floor.

“Perhaps we could have supper here," she said as he thumbed her nipple making her hiss delightedly as he did so, “and retire early, you did say that you had a headache and I would not be a devoted wife if I did not attend upon you.” She curved her neck to his mouth, “and with your terrible headache it would be terrible for us to be disturbed." He had tugged up her skirt and she had not noticed him doing so as he played with her garter.

"I would not have you go hungry, my dear," she waited for him to make a crude innuendo about placing her mouth upon him, perhaps with a gesture against his crotch, “but perhaps we shall have supper sent to the room instead.”

—-

It was not a hardship, she decided, to concede to his vanity and to wear the silk blindfold he presented her with, riding his cock with her chemise hanging around her shoulders and her back against his bent knees as she raised and lowered herself upon his cock, listening to him grunt as she did so, with her hands braced against his. She found she rather enjoyed it, allowing her to focus more upon the feel of him so thick and full within her. It was easy to see how Stiles could be so enamoured of his husband’s knot, because Lydia was fast becoming so with her own.


	24. Chapter 24

Matt did not seem best pleased to be called into Lydia’s newly appointed office early in the afternoon. She had taken over one of the smaller rooms downstairs, near the kitchen, that was not quite large enough to be a salon but perhaps as a private room that a lady had used as her workroom. She had had the new footmen set it up with a desk, with a lockable desk and cabinet for her books, a couch and a sewing frame for embroidery, which she had been known to work upon in the bright daylight from the windows. There was a small fireplace and to help remove the disused air from the room there was a small fire set there, with perfumed apple wood to make the room smell sweetly.

He struck her as being rather pissed at being summoned from his tasks, and sat in the chair facing her like he was expecting execution. His uniform was shabby and worn at the cuffs and at least an inch of ankle was showing above his shoes, she made a note of it to order more for him, she wasn't sure if it had been necessary but now she knew it was she could have him measured.

“Matthew," she asked, “how long have you worked for the Hale family?” she wanted to make sure his pay scale reflected his long service, Peter spoke quite highly of Matthew’s ability to do his duty, and she wanted to make sure he was compensated properly for such diligence.

She looked him up and down, perhaps an entire new wardrobe, she thought to herself, and not just jacket and pants. Most of the large houses would simply supply a small stipend for clothing that was to be worn during their duty hours, but it was a show of Hale wealth that all of their servants matched in uniforms that were provided for them. She noted that his boots were done as well, and so made a note that they would have to be replaced.

“All of my life," he answered. He was almost belligerant in his tone but she ignored it.

“And how long specifically have you been serving as Peter’s valet?” she continued. Peter was so vain he would want his valet to be perfectly attired as he was, perhaps she could get Peter’s tailor to dress him, of course nothing as fine as Peter wore but perhaps to the quality Lydia's own father had worn, the sort that Lief would wear to represent the house.

“Since the fire, I helped Madama Stilinski with his care.” His answers were curt and careful, and she scribbled them down.

Matt was a handsome lad, although perhaps softer in features than the Hales, but his eyes were bright blue, though a different shape to Peter’s, but he had the same thick brows. His hair had a curl which the Hales did not but Lydia knew it was not unheard of that lords dallied with the servants and so she looked for the Hale in him, but apart from the eye colour and his brows she considered it unlikely.

“That will be all, Matthew." She said, “I’ll leave it to Leif and Mrs Lyndsey to sort out the details, and then present your uniform to Liam.”

“So you're letting me go." He snarled. “You come into the house with no idea how things are done and simply replace everyone, I’ll go over your head. Lord Peter won't stand for this.” He stood up and leaned his weight onto the table.

“What? No, Matthew, I was promoting you,” She did not cower under his anger, “I was adjusting your wage but if you would rather be cast out for speaking so to a Lady I am sure there are many on the staff who would cast you out with nothing more than the clothes upon your back. I appreciate that the mood in the house has been one of upheaval and it might not have been clear but I have no intention ot letting anyone go.”

“But," he collapsed back into the chair like the air had been let out of him, “you fired Heather, Finstock has spoken of nothing else all morning.”

“Then he is mistaken," Lydia answered, “I told Heather that if she wished to retire now that she could do so without losing her wage as she is planning her wedding, but if she wished to continue working here that she could do so, but I understood that if she wished to leave to continue her plans she could do so with our blessing.”

Matt looked like he had been struck a blow to the solar plexus. “but the notes, were you not writing my reference?” He sounded very much like a young child, although he was about the same age that she was, perhaps only a few months older or younger. “And my uniform.”

"I was arranging for you to get a new wardrobe, my husband is rather vain and I thought that he would prefer if you dressed as well as he liked, and you have outgrown your uniform, the cuffs need replaced but you stand a few inches too many for it, so if we give it to Liam then he can wear it whilst he is still growing.”

“My Lady, I apologise, I leapt to a conclusion.” He offered her the apology. “You and I have started very much on the wrong foot.”

“A lie was spread, Matthew," she said, “I cannot hold you accountable for believing it. If you know who started the lie I would like to know, such good deeds cannot go unrewarded." There was a hint of steel in her voice when she spoke. “But bear in mind that it was a lie, and I will not tolerate it being continued. I am Lady Hale and I am indulgent but I am not tolerant. From here we open a new chapter in our life in Maunlilie Tor.” She smoothed out the fabric of her skirt in a calming gesture “if we are done here, you can send in Danielle when we are done.”

“Yes, my lady," he said and for the first time he bowed his head to her, but she got the feeling that she missed something.

In contrast her meeting with Danielle was much more like a conversational chat.

—-

Jennifer came in with a tray of hot mint tea and small sandwiches as Danielle had decided that she had gone long enough without eating. Danielle had taken to her new staff with a sort of wicked glee and was taking the opportunities to do the more complicated dishes that needed several pairs of hands to complete, although such meals were more commonly used for entertaining. So Jennifer brought mint tea, small lemon biscuits shaped like pansy flowers with ginger hearts, and small slim sandwiches with creme fraiche and cucumber. Lydia knew that she would eventually come to terms with the idea that she would eat when and what Danielle wanted her to, whether she cared to or not.

Jennifer wore a dull brown dress and a white cap over her dark hair. “I am sure you have questions about Lady Amabel's journey to Buxton," Lydia said, “but I have spoken with my husband about the matter and he has made it clear to me that you will be accompanying her and remaining in her pay, but now as her companion. My husband is very fond of his aunt.”

“And you’re not?” Jennifer was a little pert.

“I have had very few interactions with Lady Amabel," Lydia answered, “and she slashed me with some broken glass. I understand she has a tendency to throw her food at everyone but you. I pressed my husband to let you go, that if her ladyship will be in the Sanitorium there will be many who will serve her needs, better than a single maid could.”

“Lord Peter promised me he would always protect me.” Jennifer said raising her head in defiance.

“And why would he do that?” Lydia asked. “I am new to Maunlilie and it's history. All I have learned is that this is where the Hales bury their secrets, but now I am a Hale also, and I do think your relationship with my husband is one that I should know.”

Jennifer moved in a way that puffed up her bosoms, and tilted the long line of her neck. “Lord Peter and I were intimate.”

“My husband denies it, although he knows that I would not hold him askance for what he did whilst he waited for me to come of age. I could not accuse him of things that he did when I did not know that I was married, and if so I would have to leave him entire. You do not need to lie to me, Jennifer, your job is secure and your position within the household assured. What is your histroy with my husband?”

Lydia was sure that Jennifer was malefactor of the miseries that she had suffered here in Maunlilie, but Peter insisted that she could not simply fire her, even with Lady Amabel about to leave for the Sanitorium. So perhaps she could get the reasoning from Jennifer herself.

“Lord Peter and his colleagues rescued me." Jennifer said, “my alpha beat me, she broke my arm." Her gaze was unwavering and her jaw set, there was nothing of the simpering maid about her. “She took me to Morocco where the laws are not as favourable to omega as England. She took me from my family and she doxed me," she tugged back her cap to reveal the curves of her ears, “so no one would believe me, and when I fell pregnant she beat the child from me with a cane.” Lydia did not know what to say, “but on their return from Vienna the Queen's Dragoons called into port in Casablanca for repairs upon their ship. Vidame McCoy found me and saved my life, they smuggled me away here, and gave me a new name. Lord Peter was the only one who held land and his sister gave me a position here for life.”

“Then why did you tell the staff that I was Lady Amabel’s new companion?”

"I did not." Jennifer said, “Lord Peter sent a letter that you had been hired, that like myself you were a fallen omega, I tried to offer you kindness but you offered me nothing but misery, so I offered you acknowledgement for I understood your sorrow. When it became clear that you did not appreciate it I gave you nothing but removed myself from your presence.”

“And the claimed intimacy?” Lydia pressed, if Jennifer was jealous that would make sense of the cruelties, the ones she now denied. Jennifer said nothing in her own defence. “And going to town to impersonate his grace, Lord Szerafin?”

“That is a damned lie." Jennifer answered, slamming her hands down on Lydia's desk, making the cups rattle on their saucers. "I cannot leave the house without being medicated against the terrible panic that I feel, it is not a secret that I am as much in need of Lady Amabel's company as she is of mine.”

“And the destruction of the room that you gave to me, what do you know of that?”

“That I cannot be responsible, with Lord Szerafin entertaining that evening almost everyone in the household was helping Danielle in the kitchen." Jennifer said it calmly, “even Liam and Finstock were called in to help.”

Lydia considered the information that she was given. “What do you know of the woman in town pretending to be the Duchesse?”

“The Duchesse Krasikeva?” Jennifer asked, “she is an old friend of his Grace, why would you ask me about her?”

Lydia fussed with her tea cup so as to control her nerves. “You have given me much to think on, you are dismissed.”


	25. Chapter 25

Lydia threw her head back as Peter jostled her against the wall, she made an unhappy noise when her head thumped but then just leant forward, pressing her face into the crook of his neck as he hitched his hips and threw his fuck up into her slamming the air from her lungs with a grunt that caused him to growl.

She was blindfolded, his hands on her hips under her chemise, because her husband preferred the suggestion of nudity to actual nudity, but it meant that she was acutely aware of the fabric sliding down her arms, the crinkle of it against her breasts, dampened by his mouth, and the blazing heat of his hands against her skin.

The blindfold was a concession to her husband’s scarring. She did not care that he had been disfigured, but he did and so she wore the blindfold, but it made the sensations of his skin against hers richer, and made her more aware of every grunt and groan and the fleshy slap slap of his hips against her ass where he thrust up into her, using the wall she was up against as leverage, grunting with every roll of his hips.

She could feel his knot forming and ground down on it, this would have been the third time that night that he had knotted her, he would wait until she had locked down around him and they would move to the knotting chair which took the pressure off her hips. At some point someone had draped a bear skin over it, the fur brushed soft and warm against the skin of her legs.

She liked this time more than the actual coupling, she realised, he always made sure she reached completion, bringing her off with his hand or mouth if his knot wasn't enough, but the closeness gave them time to gossip and he would tell her amusing stories of his time in Vienna, his fingers tightening on her hips when she laughed around him at some thing that he had told her.

But Peter was charming and a little more fond of the sound of his own voice, which gave Lydia the opportunity to recover her wits from his affections which were a little overwhelming at times, he could play her body like it was a musical instrument and her pleasure was a concerto.

She knew that she was in pre-heat when her body decided to announce that she was almost at her most fertile, which, although she was using Baba’s birth control tincture, had clearly sent Peter into rut. In a few years the two cycles would regulate and his rut would correspond with her heat, meaning the two would complement with their increased hungers.

She knew that a lot of his desire was that she was there and new and eager and that it would calm, although judging by Stiles and his duke it might take some time. She also knew that when she had him knotted up inside her he was less wary and easier to manipulate.

There just wasn’t much she wished to manipulate him for, as he mostly gave her her own way simply for the asking for he had no interest in the running of the household and her allowance was more than enough to suit her tastes.

He could be closed mouth however, when it suited him, but like this, with her face slick with sweat and pressed into the hollow of his neck, and his knot caught up inside her she could ask him. “Peter," she began and he made a pleased humming noise into her hair, “who is the duchesse in town?”

“Paige," he answered, “why are you asking about her?”

“Just curious, husband," she said, running her hands up and down his back, he was easiest to question like this, and she had no intention of making him suspicious so she used her touch to keep him calm.

“It is an interesting story, I suppose, the widowed duchesse in mourning who locks herself in her room and watches the sea." He said softly, interspersing the words with soft kisses against her hair.

“Will you tell me?” she wheedled, she knew there was Peter liked more than the sound of his own voice. Had she given him wine he would have told her anything she wished to know.

“Hmmm," he murmured, “she was a family friend, close to Laura." Lydia wondered briefly if Paige had been Laura's duchesse, one she had abandoned when she had run off to the Americas with another alpha leaving her title behind, but Peter had called Paige a widow. “She came out the first year that Derek was Duke," Lydia knew that Laura was two years older than Derek, so she must have run away almost as soon as she entered society. “A pretty omega, clever and stupidly rich, she was the diamond of the season, she married a Russian Grand Duke, whisked her away. After the birth of her son she went to Carlsbad for her health, her husband died and his family refused to take her back, cut her off without a penny, but her father took her back in and left her money, she's been involved in a legal battle with the family since, but of course the regent is coy about getting involved as the Russians are our allies against the French.” He nuzzled into her hair, “are you jealous, love?” he asked her.

“I wondered if she was part of this scheme to drive me from here," she admitted, “but if she is so close to Derek isn't Stiles worried?”

Peter laughed. He genuinely laughed, making no comment when she tugged off the blindfold he liked her to wear. It did not matter much when she was tucked into the curve of his neck.

“Derek decided he would marry Stiles when he was four years old with rice pudding in his hair wearing a peasant’s smock and biting Derek's sister, and Derek was ten still arguing about not being allowed to have his own pony. I do not think that Stiles has any worries, are you not worried that she might steal me away with her dark beauty and seventy thousand pounds.”

“I doubt she would survive your vanity," she said, “if she is only pretty she is certainly not bright enough to appease your ego.”

“If you are fishing for compliments, love, you do not need me to tell me that you are lovely.” He rested his chin on the crown of her head, “I am certain that you are aware of the high esteem that I hold you in," to illustrate his opinion he flexed his hips, grinding his knot deep within her.

“A beauty always fishes for compliments, it is the only sport that is socially acceptable." She ran the tips of her fingers down her arm, “well that and the consumption of wine. I have heard the Duchesse of Devonshire, the late one, managed to set her wig on fire at one party in Brighton.” She reached over him to the small table beside the chair and took the two cups of wine, both of which were mostly empty and handed him one, where he took a lusty swallow. “And we are out of wine.”

"I don't think we can just ring for more.” He said, “Are you sure there is none left in the decanter.” He made a grunt when she leaned over him again to lift the empty decanter to show it to him, there was only a few dregs left in the crystal bottle.

"I might be able to get free.” Lydia said, “I am sure we have water to wash up, but I can certainly make the attempt.” He tilted up her mouth and kissed her, “hurry back, love.”

It took some negotiation, a few grunts, and the promise that she would be back as soon as she found more wine, and perhaps some cognac, maybe she could just bring the Tantalus. She used a cloth dipped in water to wash between her thighs and pulled on the banyan that he had left discarded across the bed when he had started pulling at her clothes with laughter and kisses. A second piece of cloth bound her hair up from her face.

She lifted the empty decanter and stepped into the dark house to make her way into the kitchen, and from there to the butler’s pantry to refresh their libations, shuffling along in Peter’s slippers, humming a variant of the lullaby that Stiles had been singing to Herald earlier in the day.

It came as a surprise when the knife found it's way to her back, pricking her through the layers of fabric. She was surprised because it was a male voice that said “now walk.”

She jerked her head hoping to catch a glimpse of her attacker, she had thought that it would be Jennifer who would try to kill her, especially as she was so unhappy about the move to Buxton and she had been clearly unhappy with Lydia moving to Maunlilie but Peter was adamant that Jennifer was not likely to threaten her place as she had her own reasons to keep the Hales happy, needing their protection.

Perhaps this was her lover, Lydia thought, following the instructions carefully, kicking off the slippers so they did not trip her. “You never understood did you, how unworthy you were," the man said, “stupid omega light skirt.” She said nothing, let him rant, walking along the corridor as he wanted her to, the bottle loose in her fingers. “Whore thinking you could walk right in here and use your quim to take whatever it was you wanted. I saw you, in London, I saw the way they all hungered after you, but you were his and you didn't care. You even flirted and danced with him. You gave him a token like it wasn’t a cheap trinket like all those who were slaves to your quim had.”

"I don’t know what it is you refer to, sir.” She said. She genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. She had been a flirt but she had gone to her wedding bed a virgin.

He poked her with the blade making her cry out despite herself. "I know you, whore, I know your kind.” He was spitting with hate, she could feel it on the back of her neck when she spoke. “He waited for you, you don’t know what he suffered, what he went through, and what did he get, a stupid whore with a loose cunt.”

“You are mistaken, sir," she said, "I have remained true to my husband.”

“Liar!" he barked, “when you displayed yourself like the slattern you are to Colonel Sheppard.”

“I did no such thing." She answered as he guided her to the tower steps, “I travelled with Colonel Sheppard as we both had business in Chester.”

“Where you got to play Lady of the Manor, the poor afflicted princess with the scarred husband, and the terrible household, why it's almost as if Maunlilie was abandoned just for you to fix it.” He jabbed her again with the blade, and she could feel how it drew blood, by the spreading warmth on her back. “Poor little omega light skirt, well it won't matter soon, he’ll get over you, he always does.”

“The rumours." Lydia said, “the mistresses who left, you killed them, didn't’ you.” There was only one person it could be. Only one person was capable of it.

“They didn’t deserve him!” He shouted.

“He told me they went to the continent, but the rumours persisted, that he had killed them, that’s why they called me the Seventh Bride because the others died, isn't that right, Matthew.”

“London whores and bitches, came up here like they were doing him a favour, but you could see it in the way they talked of him when he couldn't hear, how they hated his touch. They didn't know what he had suffered.”

“But you did, didn't you, Matthew?” she tightened her grip on the bottle.

“I WAS THERE!” He shouted poking her over and over with the knife, just deep enough to draw blood through the heavy silk of Peter’s Banyan. "I was there when he was dying, I was there when he couldn't take laudanum for the pain any more, I was there when they spent his money and wrote their letter to their friends saying how they had to scrub with carbolic to get his touch from their skin but the money was good. I was there for him. He saved me, so I saved him.”

“And you're trying to save him from me, aren't you, Matt? You just want what's best for him. I want what's best for him too.”

“Liar," he said, and went to thrust the knife but as he did so she spun on her barefoot with the bottle in her hand, and as the blade’s edge left a line of fire along her side she smashed the bottle hard into his face, causing him to slump into the wall with a sickening crunch before he fell backwards onto the shelf with his side. Lydia screamed so Lief, who had just been the one to hear her, came running.

“He tried to kill me.” She said, “I,” there was a spreading stain of blood on her chemise and she could feel it, warm and sticking to her skin. "I," her legs felt like stalks of grass underneath her and she went down hard.


	26. Chapter 26

Lydia lay on the bed with the blanket pulled down to the swell of her ass as Baba clucked and stitched the wounds on her back. She still felt dizzy but was sure she was not going to pass out again, hissing every time she felt the needle. "So what happens now?" she asked the woman tending her.

"That is complicated, they need to decide if Matthew has simply lost his mind or his perspective, he will be unable to stay here, that is for certain." There was the cold smear of honey poultice then the flat pain of boiled linen pressed against it. "The magistrate would normally be sent for but there is no way he would survive until trial, you broke his jaw and several of his ribs. They are incapable of caring for him until then."

"And they'd just hang him." Lydia answered.

"Yes, and if he had done the things he told you that he had done we would certainly send him to the magistrate and be done with him," this was the first time that Baba had described herself as a part of the Hale family and Lydia took note ofi t. "But the mistresses he claims to have murdered did not exist, certainly there was a whore or two, but they were in Chester and handsomely rewarded. Your new butler has set out to find if there was any issue with them after the fact. Your husband has always kept fastidious records."

Lydia hissed as the larger slash against her side was washed out with wine boiled with witch hazel. It stung fiercely, "looks like this doesn't need as many stitches," Baba told her. Lydia was lying in a pool of the very early sunlight, which was not yet bright enough to warm her, but there was a lamp as well, on the table by the bed. The sheets, she thought, would have to be burned, after the usable parts had been cut away for other purposes, they were that covered in blood, honey poultice and witch hazel.

"And if he has lost his mind?" Lydia pressed.

"The Sanitarium that Lady Amabel is leaving for will be able to take care of him as well as miss Jennifer, I am sure you have realised that she also is very weak of the mind."

"This house is lousy with secrets." Lydia answered, "and no one tells me aught, I find myself assaulted by a servant who believes me to be a light skirt despite that is the reputation that he gave me, but I do not wish him to hang for it is an ignominous death and it would bring terrible shame upon the family. If he retains his mind?"

"Then he will be sent to Chesapeake to Lady Laura where he can serve in the hostel she has built there." Baba said, "it is a hard journey but she does good work."

"Tell me of Lady Laura, tell me the truth that I might not make these mistakes again." Lydia said.

"Lady Laura saw a great injustice in the continued acts of Slavery in the Americas, she abandoned her title to trick a captain into marrying her to another alpha, Captain Deucalion Beecham, and together they both buy slaves for the purposes of manumitting them, and smuggle those who they know are abused to safety. Ostensibly she runs a hostel where slaves can go to be treated for maladies with no cost to their owners. The owners then maintain trade with Captain Beecham unaware that they are in fact funding their own downfall." Stiles said from the door, he had Herald in a fabric sling wrapped around his chest, and the baby seemed content to be held such, but in his arms he had a large carafe of steaming water.

Lydia thanked him, both for the water and the information. "Baba, I am told your story is the basis for the Dear Evangeline books that Peter writes under the pseudonym Daniella Wilson-Booth, is that your story?"

Baba laughed. "That is a variation of it, yes," Baba said, "when you are stronger and we are both deep in our cups I will tell you the truth of it, because it's far more salacious than Peter's publishers would allow, but I can say that it was from Berlin, and not Paris, that I came to Britain. I worked in the Cheapside hotel for prostitutes, I have spent almost all of my adult life serving as a midwife to whores, and Lady Talia sponsored one such hospital, that is how we met. I was in the act of delivering one of her daughters with my Szerafin in the Hale nursery with no one else to watch him when he met Derek and Lady Talia offered to sponsor his education with the promise that when he reached majority he would consider Derek's proposal."

"I knew by the time I was six that we would be married," Stiles added, sitting on the side of the bed, "it was quite reassuring. I never felt the urge to look elsewhere when he knew me so well. When Derek was barely twenty he was asked to take a grand tour to give me opportunity to grow, we married before he left."

"But you would have been..." Lydia did the arithmatic in her head.

"Fourteen," Stiles said, "but it was not consummated until he returned nearly three years later when I was nearly seventeen, by which point I thought I'd go mad with missing him.

"And the fire?" Lydia asked, "everything circles back to it."

Baba took a deep breath before she continued, "Katherine Argent set the fire, young Cora was unwell and throwing a tantrum, she was the same age as my kochanie, and she was sick to her stomach, her mother, Marianne, asked that I take her into the small cottage that Szerafin and I shared in case what she had spread to the other children. I tucked her and Szerafin into bed and was about to my own when I saw the fire.

The other servants of the house were roused and we attempted to stop the fire, we did not know then that it was arson." She took a deep swallow before she continued. "Peter had been in the back of the house practising his snooker, as he was not, he says, ready for bed. He went to the servants nursery and he took Matthew by the hand and had Liam in his arms, he threw them from the window, and went back to get Evie, we could hear her screaming but the fire was too fierce, the stairs collapsed under him forcing him upwards, he was forced to retreat via the window, but the flaming curtain got caught around him when he jumped, he landed in the mud, but it took long minutes for us to find him. It was the mud that scarred him, but also saved his life.

"He spent the next six months close to death, covered in damn cloths covered in salves. Derek and Laura were both at university which saved them, everyone else died. He can no longer take opiates as he took them so profusely for so long. It was Vidame McCoy that saved him, and I felt helpless. I have never felt so helpless as I did in those days. I was for sure he was going to die. When we were certain of his ability to travel he came here to Maunlilie with the hope that the sea air would help him." She put the needle down and wiped her hands off on a cloth, before smearing on the honey poultice and it's covering strip of linen.

"Thank you," Lydia said, although she was not quite sure what it was she was thanking her for.

"No corsets until the scars are fully healed." She said, returning to her brusque manner, "I shall have some smocks and looser skirts sent for you."

"They're so comfortable, Lyds," Stiles said, "if I thought I could get away with it I would still be wearing them, but my husband really likes my calves." He stretched out his leg to show her, "as you can see I have an excellent pair of calves, which are certainly worth wearing uncomfortable pants for." He was wearing a tight pair of velvet knee breeches, but his vest did not look so fine and there was a wad of folded muslin that went down over his shoulder to where Herald was snoring to mop up the inevitable drool. "Baba, would wearing uncomfortable pants like these pull her stitches?"

"Actually, kochanie," Baba said with a grin like a knife edge, "it might be exactly some of the best things she could wear, I'm sure Peter would happily sacrifice some of his clothes." There was something wicked in the way she said it, "it might even help soothe his guilt over what happened."

"Why does he feel guilty? I thought it was Jennifer and I am the one who was targeted, I should be the one to feel guilty. There is no way he could know what was going to happen." Lydia could not understand how it worked.

"Yet Matt was his servant.” Baba said, “and men are strange creatures, and the Hales blame themselves when it rains.”

“And Matt needs more care than we could give him, you broke his jaw, three of his ribs and dislocated his shoulder. Peter was rather surprised," Stiles said, “and Dr Parrish says he should be proud.”

"I told him," Lydia said, "I have two sisters.”


	27. Chapter 27

Lady Lydia Hale walked into Almacks content that the people whispering at her entry were talking about her consistent ability to set fashion. Sometimes she had her husband beside her but not tonight. A year’s honeymoon in Europe had polished the edges of the diamond of the _ton_ and two years after that she was one of the most celebrated beauties of London. Poets vyed for invitations to her salons, artists clamored for her favor, dandies and bucks altered their entire wardrobes to match what they suspected she might wear that season.

She was wearing a sage colored bodice decorated with pinked roundels on the stomacher and falls of cream colored lace at the cuffs that matched the skirt. It was a light, easily imitated dress, that would be everywhere by the end of the spring. With it, she wore a small bronze colored silk ribbon that highlighted the color of her hair, darkened from her time in England where it had been the color of old Venetian gold when she had returned from the continent.

She was accompanied this evening by the Duke and Duchenne of Altrincham but no one cared for such things, even though there was word that the Duchenne was, again, with child.

“Miss Yukimura," Lydia said gliding over the floor to talk to her friend, knowing that people would move out of her way. For society’s darling, they did move. Miss Yukimura was the daughter of a foreign Alpha and her omega, who although equally foreign was from another country and the two had had to flee with some considerable wealth as the two countries were at war. Lydia imagined it would be the same as if she had run off to marry a Frenchman, or worse, an American.

Miss Yukimura was beautiful as well as exotic, although Lydia was quick to close down any conversation that described her as such, for apart from her appearance Miss Yukimura was as much a creature of London society as Lydia herself. Even if she had not had a guaranteed dowry of ten thousand a year and the full inheritance of her parents, with no endowment, which included a fine house, she would have been popular in society for her beauty and her wit. She had a self-deprecating air that made her popular, for what one cultivated in a bride was not what one wanted in a mistress.

Miss Yukimura’s dress was a dark turquoise with a two zone bustier and matching skirt in a heavy satin, and fitted sleeves, and paired only with a delicate golden chain and amber cross. Her hair was black and sleek, brushed straight in defiance of usual fashion which favored high powdered curls pinned in a cloud about the head of the omega in question. She didn't even wear earrings, as her hair was cut straight across at her forehead, higher than her temples, and with longer bangs at either side of her head.

She had an elegant beauty and a wicked sense of humor that suited Lydia's own, even if she was very sweet in her temperament. Lydia had, in the pre-season before Christmas, introduced her to Mr. McCall as she believed the two would be a fair match. She might even get invited to the wedding.

There was fake cheek kissing as they met, and exhalations of how wonderful each looked. Lydia rightfully complimented Miss Yukimura’s dress and accepted compliments upon her own, fielding questions about her husband’s absence like a professional. Sometimes Peter felt up to society, sometimes he did not. Tonight he had other plans, involving a new novel by one of his competitors in writing novels. Of course, the Dear Evangeline books were still insanely popular but he was aware he might, at any time, be ousted from his throne.

It also meant he would be pleasantly amorous upon her return, which was something she always enjoyed, for the rumors were true and her husband was a cocksman proud of his skill and he liked her best in her society gowns. There were times she did not leave the house as he was so effusive in his praise of her. She liked him best when he would laugh and pull her onto his knee.

“Oh, who is that?” Lydia asked. The girl in question was lovely, that was clear but distinctly uncomfortable. She had brown hair pulled back in an alpha style but her dress was in the omega fashion, with a certain French _je ne sais quoi_ , it was a pale coffee colour, festooned with roses and a daring black lace detail on the stomacher which was not appropriate for a society maiden, none the less it was a lovely dress, with wide French salopettes supporting a squared skirt, rather than the more popular Polonaise or Anglaise currently in fashion, and was, when she turned around, finished with a sacque.

The dress was clearly very expensive and would have been the height of fashion in Paris, but not in London.

“That," Miss Yukimura said in a conspiratorial tone, “is Miss Tate, she will be one to watch this season, frightfully rich, the only child of Henry Tate, a wealthy industrialist, and with a dower of nearly thirty thousand pounds, the only heir to his estate, following the loss of her sister, but not a manner in her, she was raised in Canada of all places, and has loudly exclaimed that she much prefers pantaloons to skirts. The fact that her father had recently purchased Mickleover Manor in Derbyshire might not be enough to snare her a husband.”

"I think I know one that might be perfect for her," Lydia looked across at Sir Theodore, who was asking a rather shy ingenue, who Lydia knew did not have a large fortune but had a pleasing laugh, to ask.

"I was under the impression," Miss Yukimura said, taking two cups of the punch from a waiter and passing one to Lydia, “that he was a fortune hunter.”

"Oh, he is," Lydia agreed, “but he is fair handsome, charming and would not mind never setting foot in society again." She said, she was fond of Sir Theodore in his own way when they met he would make love to her, suggesting in a playful manner that was not at all serious, that she make him her lover, and such, but both knew nothing would come of it. “So for an omega who will not wear skirts do you not think he might be perfect.”

“but if he is poor he might burn through her fortune as quickly as his own.” Mr Tate was stood beside his daughter, speaking in a low voice. He was not a handsome man which suggested that his late wife must have been an excessive beauty, for his daughter was striking in her features.

“It was his father's gambling that saw his estates almost destitute, Sir Theodore has almost restored them to earning him a living wage." Lydia said, “yes," she said, “I do think that they will be perfect together.”

“Your new desire to see all of society married is most confusing, my lady," Miss Yukimura said.

Lydia laughed, “is it not the goal of all married women to find their friends locked in similar connubial bliss?”

“Perhaps if all were as well married as you.”

Lydia emptied her cup of punch, “I shall let you in on a secret, my dear Miss Yukimura. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of choice.”

“I believe the quote is chance." Miss Yukimura corrected her.

“I chose to be happy with my husband," Lydia told her, “and so I am. What more could I ask for?”

“Twelve thousand a year, a fine estate and a reasonable allowance." Miss Yukimura said before she realized how frank she had been, but Lydia just smiled.

“A fine knot and the knowledge how to use it never goes astray," the Duchenne said as he approached them. In a bowl in his hand he had a peeled orange with honey poured across it, Miss Yukimura looked scandalized but Lydia laughed. “I hear you and Mr. McCall are engaged in a fine correspondence, is there a wedding in the distance?”

Miss Yukimura reacted the way she always did with Stiles' frankness, she blushed clear to the roots of her hair. “I should excuse myself before he thinks that I am making eyes at Sir Theodore." She said. “A good evening to you both.”

Lydia smiled, “yes," she said to Stiles who was eating the slices of orange and licking the honey from his fingers as his husband hungrily watched. "I think I shall enjoy matchmaking. It is a fine occupation.”

“I think you should become a mother," Stiles said, “but I suppose making matches for the _ton_ shall have to do.” Lydia just laughed at the old argument between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is over, master has given dobby a sock and dobby is free! this one did not want to come out, the entire thing just went kerflop in the middle as it weasled out of the notes i had for it and went for broke.  
> On several occasions I nearly pulled it.  
> but it's over! we can celebrate with cups of hot posset (think really alcoholic hot egg nog) and gin

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings  
> mental coercion,  
> bullying,  
> use of a racial slur,  
> talk of suicide - one character urges another to do so  
> suicide ideation,  
> suggestion of self harm,  
> suggestion of underage by California Standards [Stiles is 16]  
> talk of mental illness in an elderly character  
> abuse of an elderly character


End file.
